Friday, August 22, 2014

Jacques Bertin - Little sunset


Original Title: "Petit coucher"

A nice reverse, I park my vocation against the sidewalk.
The door bangs with a good soothing noise.
The faith chips a little inevitably, in the end, in places
But we still start up first time even when it's cold.
A few steps in the street. I sign at the bottom of the sweetness of things
I make my muses piss, I converse with pollens.
Happy or unhappy, sad or gay, but does it really matter?
I expect news from myself. I do not grow impatient.

It's crazy how cushy we are when we are alone
And tranquil when others aren't there.

I plunge in the apartment from which I overhang the world.
I shut myself up in my compass. I head for myself.
Everything at its place, I come, I go, I reign, I roam.
I take care of the passing time and I set its thermostat.
Naked more or less, pursuing my works, without haste about myself
And my connections with hedonism and with myself
I am so well, so naked and so myself
I am missing one verse to finish this rhyme. It does not make me lose my head.

It's crazy how cushy we are when we are alone
And tranquil when others aren't there.

I settle my sheets and to bed, without regrets, without hate, without anyone.
I think about what healthy people, you should think so, do not think about.
I pull at the opium pipe delivered by God very secretly
To all those who make the request And without any charge.
And then a bit like every evening, I tell myself my role
In the Little Big Horn case and the one of the Blue Train
In passing, I still write one or two verses very beautiful, very pious
Like: "In how many lives, have you lived, Elisabeth"

It's crazy how cushy we are when we are alone
And tranquil when others aren't there.

What is great above all is that Elisabeth does not answer me
She is elsewhere, she is already sleeping without a doubt, gloomy and beautiful
And complaining of the lack of tenderness in someone else's arms
Not loved like she should be by someone else
What is great above all is that Elisabeth does not answer me
She is elsewhere, she is already sleeping without a doubt, gloomy and beautiful
And complaining of the lack of tenderness in someone else's arms
Me, holding my scepter in my hand, I fall asleep in my crown

It's crazy how cushy we are when we are alone
And tranquil when others aren't there.

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