Il me revient

It comes back to me in memory, It comes back to me in memory, It comes back to me images, A village, My village. It comes back to me in memory, I don't know, Like a dream, This story And there in the distance, Approaches My childhood, My childhood. It was, I believe, a Sunday. It was, I believe, in November. No matter, But I see the factory again. Yes, the factory Is outlined. Emerges From the picture book A gray steel sky, An anguish And heavy steps That drag And the advancing shadows. It was, I'm sure, A Sunday. It was, I'm sure, In November And an image stands out, A face, Your face. Where were you going On this road, Like An army in retreat? And everything becomes transparent And you become an absence. Everything comes back to me In memory: The sky And November And the story And the steps That draw near And advance In rhythm. You, where are you? I look for you. Where are you? I look for you, You, my past, My memory, You, Brought back from history Which was, I'm sure, A Sunday, In November. Your face, You, On this road, Frozen And the shadows That strike you And carry you away. Images come back to me, This village, Your face, You, Alone on this road, Like an army in retreat And the steps That approach In rhythm, In rhythm.