The Innocents

by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from Victor Hugo, L’Année Terrible, “June 1871”

 

XVIII

But still, we have the children! Does Fate,
going about its implacable business, pause
to listen to the murmur of these blossoming souls?
When, cheerfully, the child runs forth,
does the worried prayer that follows him
speak to anyone at all? Does Destiny amend
its thoughts, when a sweet child whispers,
of the day’s delight that awaits her?

 

Oh! What a shadow! Both sing, two
fragile heads lean one upon the other,
where floats the glow of their made-up
celebrations. Their games
reflect a better paradise
than any a weary nurse can imagine.

 

At each awakening, a child
has a bright heart as new as morning.

Their innocence is primed for joy,
    their eyes intent for surprises,
and just as the bird who chirps on a branch,
or the star that seems new-hatched
     at one of the black horizons,
they do not worry themselves
     about what their elders might do,
for their business and their adventures
is all of great nature blossoming.

 

“Look what I found,” they delight in saying.
They ask nothing of any god but sunlight.
So long as some vermilion ray
     beams through diaphanous hands
     to warm up their little fingers,
they are content!
“And what does little Jeanne desire today?” I ask.

She need not answer; she points
to where the cedars arch up to frame
the bluest of blue in the heavens.