Dmitri Shostakovitch's Eighth Symphony in Words, Allegro non troppo (mvt 5/5) (original) (raw)
Eighth Symphony in words, end
Allegretto
| 1' | The grounds ploughed in all directions are smoking, the furrows filled with spring rain are shining ditches, the sopping ruts wind up around the truck's broad tires. The packed veterans are gently rocked. They are far from the front. When the engine stops, they hear the forest. Prisoners on the uncovered truck, they are tense, wide-eyed to catch a glimpse of the marvels that tower above them. |
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| 2' 3' | Where that road takes them, the war rages on in the displaced factories. During the whole trip, the fixed destination is the only thing that counts. The sky bears no sign of danger, a bird accompanies them at hand's reach. Free, his wings are untuned. Their thoughts let loose cannot resist the pressure of remembrances. The unscarred memory sends them back to the fight. They have known the departures at night, they have left the |  |
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| 4' 5' | camp with starring eyes and packs in hands, the darkness covered by the harsh noise of warming engines, the nausea caused by the vertigo of hunger and cold, shaken they have been driven under the cold morning's eyes. It's all over now. They have come back through the frontlines. Some rest in a peaceful idleness, as when after having danced on a summer night they were walking home under the moonlight, in the alliance of drunkenness with their life. | |
| 6' | When they had formed the first cohorts, when they had been called to serve in the ranks, those who where going to fight for truth, they knew what they would commit to. Yes, they knew. The wounded soldier, lying among his fellow travellers, cannot blame himself for having failed. When he was charging, a bullet, some shrapnel hit his helmet. |  |
| 7' 8' 9' 10' 11' | Having lost his balance, he confusedly saw himself fall down. He did not feel the soaked earth give way under his feet. He lay still, nobody dug him up. He lifts his hand to his bandage, tries to slip it underneath. His whole head is bandaged, he cannot slip his fingers in between. The slit in his skull widens, he presses it with his palms. His fellows around him do not notice him. The crack opens wide, the released liquid, trickles like a warm syrup, on his forehead. The soldier lies in the mud again, stiff, outstretched arms, calling the others, the stretcher-bearers, an enemy, without pride, for help, with blood-shot eyes. He is lying in the truck; his bandage hardly stained. The comrades who are almost home are stepping down. Their stiff legs, surprised, pick-up speed. They are expected, they will be celebrated, in the tradition. In the warmth of a general ward, the sunshine waves on the wall through the young leaves and the frosted glass. The wounded man is resting. He no longer feels the pain, as if he was already saved. He sees himself back on the road, finally making it to his home. On the ceiling his frantic eyes follow the details of the dreams he endlessly pursues. He walks under the pink birch-trees, around a dark pond, barns; the red sky is paved with huge powdered clouds, the door at last. Is she there. He steps inside. The twilight covers over their house, like all the others. |
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Jean-Christophe Le Toquin
February 1997
Translation Tiphaine Catel 1997,
revised by the author 2003
Pictures ca 1995-2000
Jean-Christophe Le Toquin,
Nathalie Filloux "Ils passeront devant..."