It would’ve taken but a breath
A moment longer for death
To come ever near
But a hand so bare
Came out of nowhere
To hold mine right there
Who then brought back hues
To days lost from views
And weeks in despair
Who Gave reality
To the immensity
Of human affairs
I who used to simmer
I knew never
Of which rage
Two arms were enough
To turn my life
Into a hearty range
Just a move, asleep
A gesture in sleep
A light touch over me
A soft breath to feel
Like morning dew’s seal
Against my shoulders to be
A face leaning tight
To me in the night
Two wide-open eyes
And everything appeared
Like a field of wheat revered
In a wider universal wise
A tender garden's grace
In the grass, a verdant place
Where verbena blooms serene
And my heart, once in demise
Now revived by scented ties
That bring the shadows' gentle gleam
Aragon, "Le Roman Inachevé" (1956)
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Louis Aragon (1897-1982) was a distinguished French poet, novelist, and journalist born in Paris. His poetic oeuvre includes some of the most poignant love poems addressed to Elsa Triolet, with whom he formed an iconic partnership in twentieth-century French literature. Many of Aragon's poetry collections are devoted to celebrating Elsa's influence and their profound connection.
Aragon was a pivotal figure in Parisian Dadaism and Surrealism, alongside André Breton, Tristan Tzara, Paul Éluard, and Philippe Soupault, contributing significantly to the avant-garde movements that shaped modern French literature.
I made several attempts to translate this poem into English (See below for the original French poem). My goal was to preserve the original rhyming scheme (AABCCB) to stay true to the poet's rhythm and to convey the beautiful music of the original poem to English readers. It proved to be quite challenging, but with assistance from ChatGPT, I managed to achieve as close a match as possible to the original rhyming structure without trading on the accuracy of translation.
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Il n’aurait fallu
Qu’un moment de plus
Pour que la mort vienne
Mais une main nue
Alors est venue
Qui a pris la mienne
Qui donc a rendu
Leurs couleurs perdues
Aux jours aux semaines
Sa réalité
A l’immensité
Des choses humaines
Moi qui frémissais
Toujours je ne sais
De quelle colère
Deux bras ont suffi
Pour faire à ma vie
Un grand collier d’air
Rien qu’un mouvement
Ce geste en dormant
Léger qui me frôle
Un souffle posé
Moins une rosée
Contre mon épaule
Un front qui s’appuie
A moi dans la nuit
Deux grands yeux ouverts
Et tout m’a semblé
Comme un champ de blé
Dans cet univers
Un tendre jardin
Dans l’herbe où soudain
La verveine pousse
Et mon cœur défunt
Renaît au parfum
Qui fait l’ombre douce
Aragon, Le Roman Inachevé (1956)
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