Selon une légende, il est un oiseau qui ne chante qu'une seule fois de toute sa vie, plus suavement que n'importe quelle autre créature qui soit sur Terre. Dès l'instant où il quitte le nid, il part à la recherche d'un arbre aux rameaux épineux et ne connaît aucun repos avant de l'avoir trouvé. Puis, tout en chantant à travers les branches sauvages, il s'empale sur l'épine la plus longue, la plus acérée. Et, en mourant, il s'élève au-dessus de son agonie dans un chant qui surpasse celui de l'alouette et du rossignol. Un chant suprême dont la vie est le prix.
Le monde entier se fige pour l'entendre, et Dieu dans son ciel sourit. Car le meilleur n'est atteint qu'aux dépens d'une grande douleur... ou c'est du moins ce que dit la légende.
Long Ago, there was a bird to sang just once in its life. From the moment it left its nest, it searched for a thorn tree and it never rested until it found one. Then it began to sing more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impaled its breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it was dying, it rose above its own agony to out-sing the lark and the nightingale.
The thornbird pays its life for that one song and the whole world stills to listen and God, in His heaven smiles. As its best was bought only at the cost of great pain. Driven to the thorn, with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, We know......We understand......And still......we do it.
[Collen McCullough]
Le monde entier se fige pour l'entendre, et Dieu dans son ciel sourit. Car le meilleur n'est atteint qu'aux dépens d'une grande douleur... ou c'est du moins ce que dit la légende.
Long Ago, there was a bird to sang just once in its life. From the moment it left its nest, it searched for a thorn tree and it never rested until it found one. Then it began to sing more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impaled its breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it was dying, it rose above its own agony to out-sing the lark and the nightingale.
The thornbird pays its life for that one song and the whole world stills to listen and God, in His heaven smiles. As its best was bought only at the cost of great pain. Driven to the thorn, with no knowledge of the dying to come. But when we press the thorn to our breast, We know......We understand......And still......we do it.
[Collen McCullough]
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