Dead kings are said to have trodden this path
Leading to the stone bench where we like to sit,
While over the solitude falls the peace of evening
And our hearts, like psalm-books, are full of mute songs.
From this rock we see the plain, under the fanfares of conquest,
Suddenly bristling with iron spikes,
And multitudes, home from the summers and winters,
Flowing like a red river towards the great city in holiday mood.
But neither the sunny cavalcade beneath banners,
Nor the soft thunder of drums in spring,
Nor the cry of bugles upheld like golden corollas
Are worth this silence in which our fatigue falls asleep,
And the caress of shadows mingled with winds
And the eternal minute of our kiss, this prayer!