The Plain (II), Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

Across the plains of my soul, turned toward the North,
The old shepherd of bleak Novembers, he horns,
Standing, like a misfortune, at the threshold of the bleak fold,
He horns afar the call of the sheep of death.

The stable is made within me with my old remorse,
At the bottom of my lands of boundless sadness,
Across the plains of my soul, which a guelder-rose,
Weary of its weary waves, withers with a twisted course.

Black fleeces with red crosses on the shoulders
And rams the color of fire return, under blows of switches,
Like its slow sins, into my soul of fright.

The old shepherd of Novembers horns tempest:
Say what lightning then has crossed my head
So that, this evening, my life has been so afraid of me?

Emile Verhaeren

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-the-plain-ii-emile-verhaeren/