Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Museum by Yves Bonnefoy

The Museum

A clamor, in the distance. A crowd running under the rain beating down, between the canvases the sea wind set clattering.

A man passes crying something. What is he saying? What he knows! What he has seen! I make out his words. Ah, I almost understand!

I took refuge in a museum. Outside the great wind mixed with water reigns alone from now on, shaking the glass panes.

In each painting, I think, it's as if  God were giving up on finishing the world.

(Translated by Mary Ann Caws)


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