English, then Spanish, then French
I have read that fireflies produce a cold light
On my own I’m hardly lost,
But I do like it when our paths cross.
The green light moves within me, like a firefly,
And I can see it in your eyes.
Could each of us, in each of our ways, be sad about
The speed with which the light goes out?
With fireflies, please allow me to say,
The green again waxes as soon as it’s waned.
He leído que las luciérnagas producen una luz fría
No puedes decir que, a solas, estoy perdido,
Pero me gusta cuando se cruzan nuestros caminos.
Dentro de mí, como una luciérnaga,
Y en tus ojos, la luz parpadea.
¿Podría cada uno, a su manera, estar triste
De qué tan pronto se apagan las luces?
Me gusta que de inmediato
La luz comience a crecer de nuevo,
Tan verde y tan fresca
Como siempre.
Les lucioles, apparemment, produisent une lumière froide
On ne dirait pas que, tout seul, je me sens loin,
Mais j’aime bien quand ils se croisent – nos chemins.
En moi, comme une luciole,
Et dans vos yeux, la lumière verte brille.
Pourrait chacun, à sa manière, être triste
Que la lumière s’éteigne-t-elle si vite !
Mais dès qu’elles ont décru – les lucioles –
Leur lumière repousse, aussi verte et aussi fraîche.
— Poem(s) and drawing by William Eaton
montaigbakhtinian 
[…] her: Life . . . when you think about it . . . and “The lady with the orange hair” (see Fireflies Luciérnagas Lucioles). The drawing mixed with this poem, however, is not of Elya, and in fact is a next step in another […]
Really imaginative poem–beautiful art–thank you!
Thank you, Carol. (And I’ve been thinking of you!) For the poem I have to give a lot of credit to the fireflies. I was walking around San José, Costa Rica, and I met someone — a Swiss periodontal assistant, as I recall — and this led me to start writing, but it was when I got to the firefly analogy that poetry, let’s say, took over. As for the art, I have to thank Elya, one of my favorite models, and a person very attached to colors.