La dernière lumière

Composition : 1985
Durée : 11’ – soprano & ensemble (8) – poem by Ivan Goran KOVACIC –

Effectif : Soprano, flûte, clarinette, cor, 2 perc, piano, vl, cello
Commanditaire : ensemble l’Itinéraire
Création : 15.06.1985, Rome Villa Medici, Evelyne RAZIMOWSKI, ens. l’Itinéraire dir Yves PRIN
Éditeur : Salabert

Fosse commune – Jama

Le sang est ma clarté, le sang est ma ténèbre
Avec la vue radieuse ils m’ont arraché
Des fosses nues des yeux ma bienheureuse nuit,
D’un feu furieux les gouttes du jour allument
Au fond de mon cerveau l’iris ensanglanté.
Dans le creux de ma main mes yeux se sont éteints.

En eux certainement palpitaient les oiseaux
Quand le ciel doucement soudain se renversa
Et j’ai senti mon visage aspergé de sang
Se noyer avec l’azur du ciel dans l’iris,
Sur ma paume les yeux jubilaient au soleil
Incapables de laisser couler mes sanglots

Chaudes et massives gouttes déferlèrent
A travers mes doigts le bourreau les découvrit
Dans l’amère douceur des orbites béantes
En extase il planta le couteau dans mon cou :
Et moi la caresse de ce sang me saisit
Et j’éprouvais les gouttes comme autant de larmes.

Jama/The Pit

Tekst: Ivan Goran Kovačić; Translation: Alec Brown; Pogovor:Jure Kaštelan

BLOOD is my daylight, and darkness too.
Blessing of night has been gouged from my cheeks
Bearing with it my more lucky sight.
Within those holes, for tears, fierce fire inflamed
The bleeding socket as if for brain a balm –
While my bright eyes died on my own palm.
While played, I never doubt, God’s feathered creatures,
Reflected still in them, and clouds’ procession;
But all I felt were my blood-spattered features,
Bruised gulfs in that once brillant profusion.
Haw radiant lay my eyeballs in my hand,
Yet from those eyes no tear could more descend!
Then ever other fingers ran the warm
Coagulating blood my slaughterer found
By the profounder agony of holes he formed
For better grip, more sensuously to wound;
But me the softness of my blood enthralled,
And I rejoiced as blood were red tears falling.
The final light before the frightful night
The lightning swooping of the polished knife,
The cry too white still in my blinded sight,
The bleach-white bodies of the murderers,
Who stripped their torsos for their sweaty task –
Was dazzling even to my blinded mask.
O painful daylight, never so hard yet
Or penetrating did you break the East
With fiery arrow; I might have thought I shed
Teardrops with leaping flames that seared my cheeks
Through all that hell so many lightnings brent,
So many cries of other victims rent.
What time that furious conflagration fanned,
All that I knew of time were callouses for eyes,
Hard-grown and aching; and could hardly stand.
And only then my slippery eyeballs fingered
And knew – and cried: My sight, O Mother mine, is gone.
How shall I wepp when your life too is done?
Then dazzling daylight like a myriad carillons
From endless gleaming bell-towers in my crazy
Brain illumined like the lights of Zion,
A lovely light – a light which sanctified –
Bright birds, bright river, trees and, brilliant
Boon pure as mother’s milk, still brighter moon.
Now came a torture I had never guessed –
My murderer commanded “Break your own eyes!”
I nearly prayed for mercy to the beast,
But slimy-fingered spasmic hands obeyed –
And then no more I heard, no more could tell,
To empty nothyng faltered, and I feel.