Though I walk amid myriad gravestones,
The summer air is soft, trees cast full shadows,
And the grass ripples from grave to grave.
When a cloud passes, the shadows deepen.
I see Emile Nelligan, sixteen years old,
Brooding because he has fallen in love
With poetry and beauty. A breeze blows through him.
I think of Albert Lozeau, the invalid poet,
At the cold window of his solitary room;
And of the restless young Sylvain Garneau,
Gazing at the sky from his own grave;
And of how lucky I am to be thirty-two,
Hearing voices in the summer wind.
Ah, la belle vie, la belle vie… the dead are saying.