Off-season – Hors saison

 

Silence is

The most noticeable;

Roller blinds all lowered;

Ancient grass

In plant tubs

On balconies…

We must be off-season.

 

The sea however

In its waves continues

Its same theme,

Its empty and stubborn song,

For a few lost shadows

Under hoods…

We must be off-season.

 

The wind pierces

These too long avenues,

Someone is looking for an unknown address.

And the mail overflows

At the threshold of cottages…

We must be off-season.

 

A city fades,

In salty fogs,

The ocean’s anger is too close,

Torments condemn it

To smoke screens,

Nobody goes away from the dock.

 

We could take everything:

Walls, gardens, streets.

We could hang

On mailboxes our names,

Or else, maybe one day,

People will return…

We must be off-season.

 

The sea however

In its waves continues

Its same theme,

Its empty song: «where are you?»

All my mail overflows

At the threshold of your cottage…

We must be off-season.

 

A city fades,

In salty fogs,

The ocean’s anger is too close,

Torments condemn it

To smoke screens,

Nobody goes away from the dock.