June at the Divine Sun
For this month of June in the divine sun, stroll along the bold paths,
Checking out the well-flowered June saying, true paradise nature,
From the dawn sowing her dew-beads at twilight lighting her glowing gleams,
Leave the meadows embalming the cut grass and enter under the shivering antlers.
As part of this month between spring ending and summer nascent,
Mother Nature can be written in tiny dragonflies or in capitals of fairy stars,
In the ink of chlorophyll of dew or in letter of fire of a brilliant sun,
At the dawn of St Jean where you will celebrate summer, golden season and adored.
As night flees, crumpled his vaporous robe, his folds escaping,
A myriad of small tears of angels lay on the breast of Flore,
Heavenly sweetness the dew is deposited in fine drops on the meadows at dawn,
Roll in bubbles of freshness on limbo and petals vanishing in the burning sun.
In the early morning the musicians with feathers push their songs to shoot wings,
Merles, finches, red-throats and warblers begin their morning concert,
Rhythmized by the drumming of the peaks, the cooing of turtledoves,
And the buzzing of the bees, titillated by the promises of floral nectar.
Carefree the thrush musician sings at the top of his voice in the fresh morning air
But lurking in the shade, a bird of prey does not leave her eyes, serene,
Thanks to its obtuse wings, past master in the art of hunting in forest,
The wandering around in the labyrinth of trees and melting on the stunned to chastise her.
Glistening like rubies, resembling small cherries,
The birds delight in these fleshy little fruits with bitter taste called merises,
Before their rest on the linden tree, this tree of love embalming the summer evenings,
Which one can be charmed by its scents of soap slightly honeyed.
Fine stems stand up to the sky in the shade of tall trees in the beech forest,
The red cephalanther rises its pink-lilac bells on its lanceolate leaves,
This orchid comparable to a bird spreading its wings for its zealous flight,
This graceful plant was called the "little red bird of the forest".
Between the twirling sheep of the azure and the emerging rainbow,
At the edge of the water on the pond, the white water lilies, the floats of the sleeping lakes,
Open their hearts of gold beneath their out-of-date virginal whiteness,
The water garden becomes a fairy-tale color, like a painting by Monnet.
While the June sun illuminates the forest, a courtesan makes her entrance
The foxglove flourishes in a fireworks of purple clusters, poisonous beauty
To the petals in the form of bells with borders hemmed of opaque white,
Pharmacists have made it a heart rate regulator.
Early June the thorny locust still offers the skilled bees and bumblebees,
Its beautiful clusters of white flowers of a beautiful creamy white with subtle perfume,
The theater of an incessant ballet around the oval leaflets in pennées,
Its papilionaceous rosaries, composing excellent fried donuts for you to feast.
Slowly the starry night of stars envelops the wood of its violin muslin,
A light breeze touches the leaves of trees that seem to whisper,
When an almost plaintive song rises in an explosion of crystalline notes,
The nightingale philomelous flings his melody under the veiled nascent moon.
While the diurnal birds doze off, in the deciduous forest,
The hulotte sounds the bugle with his famous "hou-hu, hou-hu" assidu,
Suddenly, as though by magic, deploying his large ears and his silky coat
The barbastelle, hidden behind the bark peeled off the tree goes hunting, by god.
L’ ARIÉ…JOIE