The fir trees in pointed bonnets
Clad in long robes
Like astrologers
Salute their fallen brothers
The boats that sail on the Rhine
In the seven arts indoctrinated
By the old fir trees their elders
Who are great poets
They know themselves predestined
To shine more than planets
To shine gently changed
Into stars and snow-covered
On blissful Christmases
Feasts of the dreaming fir trees
With long languorous branches
The fir trees beautiful musicians
Sing ancient carols
To the wind of autumn evenings
Or else grave magicians
Chant the sky when it thunders
Rows of white cherubim
Replace the fir trees in winter
And beat their wings
In summer they are great rabbis
Or else old maids
Fir trees wandering physicians
They go offering their good ointments
When the mountain gives birth
From time to time under the hurricane
An old fir tree groans and lies down
Guillaume Apollinaire
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-fir-trees-guillaume-apollinaire/
