C’est l’heure, little wren
little shadow on horseback,
wing of black hair,
little Vivienne.
C’est ton pere—
like a bell being rung:
C’est ton pere, c’est ton pere.
Il est mort, Vivienne.
What must your mother
have said meaning
gone and forever,
your father, your prince?
How must the news have struck
when she woke you to tell you
son coeur
s’arrete.
In which language
can such words be spoken
and not break the spell
of the sleeping child?
Leur princesse,
sur son cher cheval.
And how will you run again,
small vivid one?
Long-legged,
smelling of grass,
pony and miracle,
wild rush of sun—
as he dreamed of you,
dreamed of you once,
as he dreams now
flying over the field.
