René Char: The Swift

Swift whose wings are too wide, who spirals and cries out his joy around the house. The heart is like that.

He dries up the thunder. He sows in the quiet sky. If he touches the ground, he breaks.

The swallow is his counterpart. He detests her domesticity. What good is the tower’s lace?

He will pause in the darkest crevice. None is more stringently lodged than he.

In the long brilliance of summer, he slips through the shutters of midnight into shadow.

No eyes can hold him. His presence is all in his cry. A slender gun is going to strike him down. The heart is like that.


Tr. Patricia Terry. The prose poem works better in French than in English: the relationship between linguistic rhythm and musicality is very different. Nonetheless the image of the swift as the human heart is intensely striking.