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– The earth is made of granite, the streams are made of marble;
It is winter; we are very cold. Will you, good tree,
Be the Yule log in my hearth?
– Wood, I come from the earth, and, fire, I rise to the sky.
Strike, good woodcutter. Father, grandfather, man, woman,
Warm your hands at the fire, warm your souls at God.
Love, live. – Will you, good tree, be the beam
Of a plow? – Yes, I want to dig the black silt,
And draw the golden ear of grain from the deep earth.
When the plowshare has passed, the plain turns fair,
Peace with gentle eyes rises from the half-opened furrow,
And the weeping dawn smiles. – Will you, beautiful green tree,
Tree of the dark thicket where the roe deer darts away,
Be the pillar of man’s house? – Strike.
I can bear the roofs, having borne the nests.
Your dwelling is sacred, man, and I bless it;
There, in shadow and love, pensive, you withdraw;
And the sound of children resembles the sound of leaves.
– Will you, tell me, good tree, be a ship’s mast?
– Strike, good carpenter. I am glad to be a bird.
The ship is for me, in the immense mystery,
What the tomb is for you; it tears me from the earth,
And, shuddering, carries me through the infinite.
I shall go see those great skies from which winter is banished,And of which more than one swarm speaks to me as it passes.
No more than the tomb frightens the wise man,
Does the deep Ocean, clothed in darkness,
Frighten me at all: yes, strike. – Tree, will you
Be a gallows? – Silence, man! begone, axe!
I belong to life, to indignant life!
Begone, executioner! begone, judge! flee, demons!
I am the tree of the woods, I am the tree of the mountains;
I bear the ripe fruits, I shelter the periwinkles;
Leave me my root and leave me my branches!
Back! men, kill! workers of death,
Be bloody, wicked, hard; but do not come,
Do not come, dragging ropes and chains,
To seek an accomplice among the great oaks!
Do not make serve your crimes, oh living,
The mysterious tree to which the winds speak!
Your laws carry night on their funeral wings.
I am a son of the sun, be sons of darkness.
Go away! leave the tree in its wilderness.
To your pleasures, to games, to feasts, to concerts,
Join the scaffold and the torture; do it.
So be it. Live and kill. Kill between two celebrations
The wretch, laden with faults and woes;
I, I do not mingle any specter with my branches!
Victor Hugo
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-nature-victor-hugo/