by Yves Bonnefoy
I open my eyes, yes, it’s the house where I was born,
Exactly as it was and nothing more.
The same small dining room whose window
Gives onto a peach tree that never grows.
A man and a woman are seated
At this window, facing one another,
They are talking, for once. And the child
Sees them from the end of the garden, watches them,
He knows that people can be born from such words.
Behind the parents the room is dark.
The man has just come home from work. Weariness,
The halo that surrounds all he does,
The only one given his son to see,
Is already removing him from this shore.