Plus tard, il sera trop tard

“Plus tard, il sera trop tard,

Notre vie, c’est maintenant”

Jacques Prevert

Plus tard, il sera trop tard.

Later it will be too late 

To stand barefoot in dew-licked grass

As the sun turns the sky from gray to gold.

To say good morning to the birds 

As they swirl and sway about my backyard feeders.

Later it will be too late

To find the rocky footholds on a craggy mountain 

that reaches towards an azure sky. 

To bike alongside a fertile farmer’s field 

laid out under puffy white clouds.

Plus tard, il sera trop tard

To blow goodbye kisses to a little face 

peering out the car window as it backs down my drive. 

To look deeply into the eyes of the future 

as they nod off to sleep in my arms.

Notre vie, c’est maintenant.

Our life, it is now.

The now of quiet songs, and whispered prayers.

Of  you and me raising a glass to a tranquil evening

Of the people and places we claim as ours, 

filling space and time with laughter, with love.

Our life, it is now.

The now of chaos and confusion, 

Stifled rage spilled out on screens.

Sorrow and sadness, division and despair,

Constantly peddled to a worried world.

Notre vie, c’est maintenant.

It is a yes this, and yet also that. 

The now of deceit and doubt, distrust and destruction 

Squeezing, crowding, pushing, pressing 

This one fragile life fiercely lived.

We purge our despair in tempestuous dreams

As we focus most days on hope.

Gratitude before sadness, grace before despair,

Love before the clock marks its final hour

Because the tempo of time is a thief and

Plus tard, il sera trop tard.