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شعر بالانجليزي عن الامل

شعر بالانجليزي عن الامل







شعر بالانجليزي عن الامل

In all the intoxication of a pride without measure,
Dazzled by the glimmers of your narrow mind
Man, you shouted at me, "Rest, Nature!
Your work is closed: I was born! "

What! when she has space and time in front of her,
When matter is there under his creative finger,
She would stop, the immortal worker,
In the drunkenness of his toil?

And you will be my last limits?
The human atom could hinder my growth?
This is the abridgement of all misery
What would my long effort have stretched?

No, you're not my goal, no, you're not my bound
To cross you already I think while creating you;
I do not come from the depths of dull eternity.
To reach nothing but your nothingness.

Do not you see me, without fatigue and without truce,
Fill the immensity of the works with my hands?
Towards an unknown term, my hope and my dream,
Launching by a thousand ways,

Caller, alternately patient or in a hurry,
And until my deviations pursuing my plan,
To form, to life and even to thought
The matter scatters in my womb?

I aspire! It's my cry, fatal, irresistible.
To create the universe I had only to throw it;
The atom was moved in its invisible sphere,
The star began to gravitate.

The eternal movement is only the momentum of things
Towards the sacred ideal that my desire envisions;
In the ascending course of my metamorphoses
I pursue it without grasping it;

I ask it to heaven, to the wave, to the fluid air,
Confused elements, brilliant suns;
If he escapes me or resists my greedy embrace,
I will take it from the hands of Time.

When I take births, funerals,
When I create or destroy fiercely,
What am I doing, if not preparing my bowels
For this supreme birth?

Stopping at my steps, no truce to my task!
Always start again and always leave.
But I do not create endless and tireless
For the pleasure of annihilating.

I have done for a long time a stepmother,
I buried too much, I exterminated too much,
Me who am basically only the idolatrous mother
From a single child who is not born.

When will I finally be moved and thrilling?
After so much work and so many ungrateful essays,
To this son of my wishes and my long wait
To open your arms madly?

From all eternity, sublime certainty!
It is designed ; my flanks felt him stir.
The love that lies in me, the love that I compress
Wait for Him to burst.

Let him appear in the day, and, delirious nurse,
I let my eyes penetrate.
- But a veil hides you. - Well ! I tear it up:
To discover me is to deliver myself.

Surprised in his games, the Force is enslaved.
He puts the Laws to the yoke. At his voice, at his pleasure,
Discoveries finally, the sources of Life
Will pour out their sacred flow.

In his superb impulse He escapes you, O matter!
Fatality, her hand breaks your rings of brass!
And I will see it hover in its own light
A free and sovereign being.

Where will you be then, you who have just been born,
Or who will be born again, O multitude, swarm,
Who, suddenly seized with the vertigo of being,
Get out of my breast in a crowd?

In death, in oblivion. Under their dark waves
The ages will have you confused and rolled,
Having made a cradle for future breeds
From your accumulated silts.

You who believe you the crown and the ridge
From the divine monument which is not completed,
Man, who is basically only the imperfect sketch
Of the masterpiece that I dreamed,

In your turn, at your hour, you must perish.
Ah! your pride may be outraged and suffer,
You will never be in my creative hands
Only clay to repaint.


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