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Debussy - Triolet à Phyllis

Triolet à Phyllis



Si j'étais le Zéphyr ailé,
J'irais mourir sur votre bouche.
Ces voiles, j'en aurais la clef
Si j'étais le Zéphyr ailé.
Près des seins pour qui je brûlais
Je me glisserais dans la couche.
Si j'étais le Zéphyr ailé,
J'irais mourir sur votre bouche.

Théodore de Banville

Nuit sans fin (Nuits blanches I)

Nuit sans fin. Tristesse morne des heures où l'on attend!
Cœur rompu. Fièvre de sang rythmant les douces syllabes de son nom.
Qu'elle vienne la trop désirée, qu'elle vienne la trop aimée,
Et m'entoure de son parfum de jeune fleur.
Que mes lèvres mordent le fruit de sa bouche
Jusqu'à retenir son âme entre mes lèvres.
Ai-je donc pleuré en vain, Ai-je donc crié en vain,
Vers tout cela qui me fuit!
Tristesse morne. Nuit sans fin!

Pourquoi?  (Nuits blanches II)

Lorsqu'elle est entrée, il m'a semblé
que le mensonge traînait aux pieds de sa jupe.
La lueur de ses grands yeux mentait,
et dans la musique de sa voix
quelque chose d'étranger vibrait.
C'était les doux mots que je connais si bien,
mais ils me faisaient mal et entraient en moi douloureusement.
Qui donc a usé son regard? Qui donc a fané la rougeur de sa bouche?
D'où vient cette lassitude heureuse
qui semble avoir brisé son corps comme une fleur trop aimée du soleil.
Oh! torturer une à une les veines de son cher corps, l'anéantir et le consumer. Ensevelir sa chair dans ma chair,
avec la joie amère de l'impossible pardon.
Tout à l'heure ses mains plus délicates que des fleurs
Se poseront sur mes yeux et tisseront le voile de l'oubli…
Alors mon sang rebattra. Les plaies rouges de mon cœur saigneront,
et le sang montera, noyant son mensonge et toute ma peine.

Claude Debussy

Triplet for Phyllis



Were I the winged Zephyr
I would go to die upon your lips.
To their veils I would have the key
were I the winged Zephyr.
Close to the breasts for which I burned
I would lay down in her bed.
Were I the winged Zephyr
I would go to die upon your lips.

Endless night (Sleepless nights 1)

Endless night. Dreary sadness of the waiting hours!
Broken heart. Fever of blood punctuating the sweet syllables of her name.
May she, the most desired, the most loved, come
and envelop me with her scent of fresh flowers.
May my lips bite the fruit of her mouth
to keep hold of her soul between my lips.
Have I been weeping in vain, have I been calling in vain,
after all which flees from me!
Dreary sadness. Endless night!

Why? (Sleepless nights 2)

Once she had entered, it seemed to me
that the lie hung from the hem of her skirt.
The glow of her big eyes lied,
and in the music of her voice
something distant trembled.
It was the sweet words that I know so well,
but they hurt me and entered me painfully.
Who then had worn her gaze? Who could have withered the redness of her lips?
From where does this happy weariness come
which seems to have shattered her body like a flower too loved by the sun.
Oh! To torture one by one the veins of her dear body,
to annihilate and consume it. To bury her flesh in my flesh,
with the bitter joy of the impossible pardon.
In a while her hands, more delicate than flowers,
will settle on my eyes and weave the veil of forgetfulness…
Then by blood will beat anew. The red wounds of my heart will bleed,
and the blood will rise, drowning her lie and all of my suffering.

© translated by Christopher Goldsack

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