tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70892950856041364612024-02-25T02:19:35.246-08:00French songs translations (Lyrics)Translations of poetic and literary French songs.Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.comBlogger407125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-51113479320707532982023-09-13T04:45:00.006-07:002023-09-13T04:46:21.540-07:00Léo Ferré - This wound<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/heKPfMEQXIY?si=CbLlkPWnwlGc9qQe" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Original Title : "<i>Cette blessure</i>"<br/>
Year: 1970 <br/>
<blockquote>This wound<br/>
Where dies the sea like a flesh sorrow<br/>
Where goes life to germinate in the desert<br/>
Which makes of blood the whiteness of the cribs<br/>
Which closes up at the marble of the tomb<br/>
This wound from which I come<br/>
This wound<br/>
Where my lip at dawn of love<br/>
Where beats your fever a bit like a drum<br/>
Where leaves your vine when pressing fingers on it<br/>
Where the shout comes, the same every time<br/>
This wound from which you come<br/>
This wound<br/>
Which closes up at the edge of boredom<br/>
Like a scar of the night<br/>
And which never stops reopening<br/>
Under some tears sharpened by desire<br/>
This wound<br/>
Like a sun under melancholy<br/>
Like a garden which we only open at night<br/>
Like a perfume which lags during the tide<br/>
Like a smile on destiny<br/>
This wound from which I come<br/>
This wound<br/>
Draped of silk under its black triangle<br/>
Where go the surveyors of fate<br/>
To build from nothing some assisted sorrows<br/>
While digging there for the sin<br/>
This wound from which you come<br/>
This wound<br/>
Which we would like sewn in the middle of desire<br/>
Like a sewing over pleasure<br/>
Which we would like to see close forever<br/>
Like a door opened on death<br/>
This wound of which I die<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-90030548112830440852023-05-22T03:12:00.001-07:002023-07-29T02:42:58.164-07:00Léo Ferré - The chimerical pond<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8jA-4G7W8Wo" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "<i>L'étang chimérique</i>"<br/>
Text: Léo Ferré<br/>
Year: 1958<br/>
<blockquote>Our most beautiful memories blossom on the pond<br/>
In the faraway castle of a faraway Spain<br/>
They tell us of the time lost oh my companion<br/>
And that white water lily it's your twenty year old heart<br/>
<br/>
One day we'll embark<br/>
On the pond of our memories<br/>
And will do again just for the sake of it<br/>
The sweet journey of life<br/>
One day we'll embark<br/>
My sweet Pierrot my great friend<br/>
To never ever come back<br/>
<br/>
Our bad memories will drown in the pond<br/>
Of that faraway castle of a faraway Spain<br/><br/>
And we'll only keep for ourselves oh my companion<br/>
That white lily and your twenty year old heart<br/>
<br/>
One day we'll embark<br/>
On the pond of our memories<br/>
And will do again just for the sake of it<br/>
The sweet journey of life<br/>
One day we'll embark<br/>
My sweet Pierrot my great friend<br/>
To never ever come back<br/>
<br/>
Then everything will be illuminated my friend<br/>
</blockquote>
Jacques Bertin's version:<br/>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Je2HpJZeTH8" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-89038398715201268792023-05-18T14:06:00.001-07:002023-05-18T14:06:03.795-07:00Dominique A - Music Hall<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BmZneDVyI7A" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Year : 2006<br/>
<blockquote>Big anxious grey skies<br/>
Nail the bathing day to the ground.<br/>
The man advances in the middle of the dunes<br/>
He walks swaying<br/>
He remembers the Music Hall<br/>
The long funnel corridor<br/>
Where the crowd was unwinding<br/>
Dresses hanging only by a thread<br/>
And the wet, wet sidewalk.<br/>
<br/>
He advances in the middle of the dunes<br/>
Gomina beaten by the wind<br/>
He thinks it's eight o'clock in the evening<br/>
And he walks down the hall<br/>
Where the shoulders rustle as they slip<br/>
The crowd takes place in the heart of the dunes<br/>
The sea clapped loudly.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't know how to say farewell to it"<br/>
Did she tell him last night<br/>
"You won't see if I leave<br/>
My road does not pass through your eyes<br/>
In your head, it's eight o'clock in the evening<br/>
Forever, here or elsewhere<br/>
It's the velvet of the long corridor<br/>
That we would find, if we opened your heart”.<br/>
<br/>
At the Casino which watches over the dunes<br/>
The machines wake up, gasping,<br/>
A few orphans of the moon<br/>
Are already conscientiously working<br/>
At accumulating misfortune<br/>
A large strong coffee awaits<br/>
Near the rattling machines<br/>
As he enters, he sees the carpet<br/>
And he sees lights from the past.<br/>
<br/>
" You don't know how to say farewell to them<br/>
Nor to those big red letters<br/>
Nor to the disorder of intermissions<br/>
Nor to the curtains which go floating<br/>
You remind yourself of the Music Hall<br/>
Of some laughter and tightened throats<br/>
And the rustling of the shoulders<br/>
And outside, the wet sidewalk”<br/>
<br/>
Seaside boulevard, the house<br/>
In the heart of other silent houses<br/>
Mouths closed once the summer is passed<br/>
The table laid, the slender woman<br/>
The plate that just needs to be warmed up<br/>
And the evening before still vibrating<br/>
Of the few brewed truths<br/>
He forgives her without an effort<br/>
It was too real to touch it.<br/>
<br/>
They kiss, she goes to work<br/>
She has the forgiveness of the ghost<br/>
And the unshaken hope;<br/>
Love rears up in the hall<br/>
Where memory has condemned him<br/>
With the great swaggering sadness<br/>
Of the decayed end of parties<br/>
Where the clothes take a break<br/>
And the heart is undressed.<br/>
<br/>
And under the gray skies which worries<br/>
In the dunes or at the Casino<br/>
Among the hiccupping machines<br/>
He looks, he sees hoops<br/>
Of fires browning the carpet<br/>
And he sees some curtains falling<br/>
Hands clapping in the storm<br/>
Outside.<br/>
<br/>
And he sees the letters<br/>
Red, and the crimson corridor<br/>
And all the possible of the nights<br/>
Which is displayed, red, spelled out<br/>
And none of this is over<br/>
Love nestles there, unbroken<br/>
And all the goodbyes are entangled in it<br/>
How to say goodbye to life?<br/>
<br/>
He remembers the music hall<br/>
From the long funnel corridor<br/>
Where the crowd was unwinding<br/>
Dresses hanging by a thread<br/>
And wet, wet sand.<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-37976182502989519752023-01-26T08:55:00.006-08:002023-01-26T08:55:44.882-08:00Edith Piaf - Prévert - When you sleep<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ofVTpRRjsUc" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe></br>
Original Title: "<i>Quand tu dors</i>"</br>
Text: Jacques Prévert</br>
Music: Christiane Verger</br>
Year: 1961</br>
<blockquote>You, you sleep at night</br>
Me, I have insomnia</br>
I see you sleep, it makes me suffer</br>
</br>
Your eyes closed</br>
Your tall body lying down</br>
It's funny but it makes me cry</br>
And suddenly, here you are laughing</br>
Laughing out loud while sleeping</br>
Where are you right now?</br>
Where are you gone really?</br>
Maybe with another woman</br>
Far away in another country</br>
And with her you are laughing of me</br>
You, you sleep at night</br>
Me, I have insomnia</br>
I see you sleep, it makes me suffer</br>
</br>
When you are sleeping, I don't know if you love me</br>
You're so close but still so far</br>
I'm completely naked, huddled against you</br>
But it's as if I wasn't there</br>
Yet I hear a beating heart</br>
I don't know if it's beating for me</br>
I know nothing, I don't know anymore</br>
I'd like for it to stop beating, your heart</br>
If one day you stop loving me</br>
</br>
You, you sleep at night</br>
Me, I have insomnia</br>
I see you dream</br>
It makes me cry</br>
</br>
Here comes the day</br>
And suddenly you awaken</br>
And you smile at me</br>
You smile with the sun</br>
And I don't think to the night anymore</br>
You say the words always the same</br>
Did you have a good night</br>
And I answer like the day before</br>
Yes honey, I slept well</br>
And I dreamt of you like every night.</blockquote>
Cora Vaucaire's version:</br>
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Barbara's version:</br>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bxcq4WasCRA" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe></br>
</br>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-60986891227450134392023-01-13T06:55:00.006-08:002023-05-18T13:25:12.443-07:00Léo Ferré - The artist's life<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JfaEM18OOuM" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Original Title: "<i>La vie d'artiste</i>"<br/>
Year: 1950<br/>
<blockquote>I met you by chance,<br/>
here, elsewhere or somewhere else<br/>
Maybe you remember it<br/>
Without knowing each other we fell in love<br/>
And even if it's not true<br/>
One has to believe in the ancient stories.<br/>
I gave you what I had:<br/>
What to sing, what to dream<br/>
And you believed in my Bohemia<br/>
But if you thought at twenty years old<br/>
That one can live of the spirit of time<br/>
Your point of view is not the same<br/>
<br/>
This infamous end of the month<br/>
Which since we are you and me<br/>
Is coming back seven times a week<br/>
And our evenings without cinema<br/>
And my success which is not coming<br/>
And our uncertain means of sustenance<br/>
<br/>
You see I haven't forgotten anything<br/>
In this statement of affair sad to make one cry<br/>
Which records our failure<br/>
You still have nice days ahead of you<br/>
Enjoy them my poor love<br/>
Beautiful years are passing by fast.<br/>
<br/>
And now you are going away<br/>
Both we are going to grow old<br/>
Each for himself how sad that is<br/>
You can take the record player away<br/>
Me, I'll keep the piano<br/>
I continue my life of an artist<br/>
<br/>
Later, without knowing why<br/>
A foreigner, a clumsy man<br/>
Reading my name on a poster<br/>
Will talk to you of my successes<br/>
But a little sad, you, who knows<br/>
You'll tell him that I flaunt myself.<br/>
</blockquote>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4a18dpASqCg" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-84163355761504897842022-12-12T11:27:00.005-08:002022-12-12T11:27:46.930-08:00Cora Vaucaire - Three little notes of music<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UT0B4a6CY2E" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "Trois petites notes de musique"<br/>
Text:Henri Colpi<br/>
Music: Georges Delerue<br/>
Year: 1961<br/>
<blockquote>Three little music notes closed down in the heart of memory<br/>
Done with their racket, they are turning the page and are going to sleep<br/>
But one day without warning, they come back in memory<br/>
<br/>
You, you wanted to forget a little overused tune in the streets of Summer<br/>
You, you'll never forget one street, one Summer, one girl who was humming.<br/>
<br/>
La, la, la, la, I love you, was singing the old melody<br/>
La, la, my love, some words without anything sublime<br/>
As long as the rhyme always brings<br/>
An haunting holiday romance which harasses you<br/>
<br/>
True, she was so pretty, so fresh radiant and you didn't catch her<br/>
True, for her first thrill<br/>
She was offering you a song to take as one<br/>
<br/>
La, la, la, la, every dreaming, rhymes with ending<br/>
Yours doesn't make sense, ending before it starts<br/>
The time of a dance, the space of a refrain<br/>
<br/>
Three little music notes<br/>
Which are screwing you over from the bottom of the memories<br/>
Raising a cruel stage curtain<br/>
On a thousand and one sorrows which refuse to die<br/>
</blockquote>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9VH6iGPrlec" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-3787788263537836532022-09-20T12:21:00.004-07:002022-09-20T12:22:29.705-07:00Georges Moustaki - Loves end one day<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NETXs11hNzs" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Text: Georges Moustaki<br/>
Original Title: "Les amours finissent un jour"<br/>
Year: 1962<br/>
<br/>
<blockquote>
Loves end one day<br/>
Lovers only love for a time<br/>
What's the point of regretting you<br/>
My beautiful love of one summer<br/>
Here already comes Winter<br/>
Soon the sky will be covered<br/>
With big clouds heavier<br/>
Than our love sorrow<br/>
<br/>
Loves end one day<br/>
Lovers only love for a time<br/>
What's the point of thinking to me<br/>
There are other men than me<br/>
To say the words you expect<br/>
To offer you new springs<br/>
To forget the past<br/>
To make it start over<br/>
<br/>
Loves end one day<br/>
Lovers only love for a time<br/>
What's the point of tearing each others off<br/>
Why suffer or cry<br/>
Nothing new under the sun<br/>
Everything is so much<br/>
So much the same<br/>
It'd be better from now on<br/>
To forget how we loved one another<br/>
<br/>
Loves end one day<br/>
Lovers only love for a time<br/>
But us both it was different<br/>
We could have loved one another<br/>
For a long time, for a long time, for a long time<br/>
<br/>
We could have loved one another<br/>
For a long time, for a long time, for a long time<br/>
Forever...</blockquote>
Cora Vaucaire's version: <br/>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/34KT92Lbv7U" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-30848046794937751812022-09-11T03:31:00.005-07:002022-09-11T03:56:57.337-07:00Dominique A - Poetry<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/PO-xlinsNws" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/><br/>
Original Title: "La poésie"<br/>
Year: 2018 <br/>
<br/>
<blockquote>Poetry went away<br/>
I suspect her of having passed by your place<br/>
Of having lied down in your bed<br/>
And of having listened to the rain over the roof<br/>
She has so little to confide<br/>
Not the kind to pour out her feelings too much. A few words<br/>
She left over your desk<br/>
A few deletions with a fountain pen<br/>
Then she went away<br/>
Then she went away<br/>
<br/>
It took us a few days<br/>
To be a bit less blind and deaf, and find<br/>
That the air was a bit less heavy<br/>
Our shoulders hunched up a bit more, and think<br/>
That after having announced<br/>
A thousand times reported departure, she had<br/>
Removed the coat from the hook<br/>
Where it was hanging for centuries<br/>
Then went away<br/>
Then went away<br/>
<br/>
Are we lost children?<br/>
Forest stretched as far as the eyes could see for the evening<br/>
Refuses to abandon us<br/>
To let all power to the darkness<br/>
On our story gotten off to a bad start<br/>
Full moon has been summoned to thwart<br/>
The traps of a too dark night<br/>
In the area around a slaughterhouse<br/>
Without a poem to save us<br/>
Without a poem to save us<br/>
<br/>
I don't know why I was thinking<br/>
That she couldn't have gone away, without passing<br/>
By your place and on your desk<br/>
I saw the deletions made with a fountain pen, a few words<br/>
Which slipped over my skin<br/>
On your face, and on your hands they took<br/>
The rythm of a heart on borrowed time<br/>
And their skin was weak as well<br/>
But one would have to hold onto it<br/>
But one would have to hold onto it</blockquote><br/>
Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-16733267228525240902022-01-28T03:05:00.008-08:002023-07-29T02:50:32.224-07:00Julos Beaucarne - In the memory of roses<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lo1Cx7M2pw0" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br/>
Original Title: "De mémoire de rose"<br/>
Year: 1975<br/>
<br/>
<blockquote>In the memory of roses<br/>
Never has a garderner been seen dieing<br/>
If just a pause<br/>
Can't be sufficient for you<br/>
Madam, leave<br/>
The time stretch<br/>
Without cursing it, be patient<br/>
Let yourself slide in the light wind<br/>
Patience, be patient<br/>
<br/>
If love flies away<br/>
Blame only yourself<br/>
You ran away from school<br/>
For the bed of a King<br/>
If her white veil<br/>
Is no more than a fog<br/>
Do not hang yourself from the branch<br/>
As soon as it'll be dark<br/>
Do not hang yourself from the branch<br/>
As soon as it'll be dark, because<br/>
<br/>
In the memory of roses <br/>
Never has a garderner been seen dieing<br/>
If just a pause<br/>
Can't be sufficient for you<br/>
Madam, leave<br/>
The time stretch<br/>
Without cursing it, be patient<br/>
Let yourself slide in the light wind<br/>
Patience, be patient<br/>
<br/>
Keep deep inside<br/>
Deep inside yourself<br/>
A void, a place<br/>
Behind the feasts<br/>
Where to lay your head<br/>
In the wind of the evening<br/>
Rock those old dreams<br/>
Even if it's dark<br/>
Rock those old dreams<br/>
Even if it's dark, because<br/>
<br/>
In the memory of roses <br/>
Never has a garderner been seen dieing<br/>
If just a pause<br/>
Can't be sufficient for you<br/>
Madam, leave<br/>
The time stretch<br/>
Without cursing it, be patient<br/>
Let yourself slide in the light wind<br/>
Patience, be patient<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-13366777426611594662022-01-14T10:13:00.001-08:002022-01-14T10:13:30.122-08:00Georges Brassens - In the woods of my heart<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Lk6KlXAsyxI" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "Au bois de mon coeur"<br/>
Year: 1957<br/>
<blockquote>In the woods of Clamart there are some little flowers,<br/>
there are some little flowers,<br/>
there are some friends in the woods of my heart,<br/>
in the woods of my heart.<br/>
<br/>
At the back of my courtyard I'm famous<br/>
I'm famous<br/>
for having a disreputable heart<br/>
A disreputable heart<br/>
<br/>
In the woods of Vincennes there are some little flowers,<br/>
There are some little flowers,<br/>
there are some friends in the woods of my heart,<br/>
in the woods of my heart.<br/>
<br/>
When my cask runs out of wine<br/>
When my cask runs out of wine<br/>
In my cask,<br/>
They aren't afraid of drinking my water,<br/>
Of drinking my water.<br/>
<br/>
In the woods of Meudon there are some little flowers,<br/>
There are some little flowers,<br/>
There are friends in the woods of my heart,<br/>
In the woods of my heart.<br/>
<br/>
They go with me to the town hall,<br/>
They go with me to the town hall,<br/>
To the town hall,<br/>
Everytime I get married,<br/>
That I get married.<br/>
<br/>
In the woods of Saint-Cloud there are some little flowers,<br/>
There are some little flowers,<br/>
There are friends in the woods of my heart,<br/>
In the woods of my heart.<br/>
<br/>
Every time I die faithfully,<br/>
Faithfully,<br/>
They follow my funeral procession,<br/>
My funeral procession.<br/>
<br/>
Some little flowers<br/>
Some little flowers<br/>
In the woods of my heart<br/>
In the woods of my heart<br/>
</blockquote>
Live:<br/>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CKmYCujF6i0" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-62999429486426131202022-01-13T04:02:00.002-08:002022-01-13T04:02:08.187-08:00Léo Ferré - The loneliness<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KBt36Bw7_8Q" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "<i>La solitude</i>"<br/>
Year: 1971<br/>
<blockquote>I'm from a different country than yours, from another neighborhood, from another loneliness.<br/>
Today I invent myself some side roads.<br/>
I’m no longer local, I’m waiting for some mutants.<br/>
Biologically I’m working out with the idea<br/>
I made myself of Biology: I piss, I ejaculate, I cry.<br/>
It’s of highest urgency for us to shape our ideas<br/>
as if they were manufactured objects.<br/>
I am ready to provide you with the molds. But...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
<br/>
The molds are made of a new texture, I'm warning you.<br/>
They were cast tomorrow morning.<br/>
If you haven’t from this very day the relative sentiment of your duration<br/>
It is futile to pass on to you, it's useless to look in front of you <br/>
Because the front is behind, night is day, and...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
<br/>
It’s of utmost urgency for our laundromats,<br/>
At street corners, to be as imperturbable as the stop lights or free way indicators<br/>
The cops of the detersive will show you the box<br/>
Where you'll be at liberty to wash what you believe to be your conscience<br/>
And which is nothing more but an dependency of the neurophilic computer<br/>
That is serving you as brain. And yet..<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
<br/>
Despair is a superior form of the critique.<br/>
For the moment, we’ll call it: “happiness”<br/>
The words which you are using no longer being “the words”<br/>
But some sort of canal through which<br/>
The illiterate people are easing their conscience. But... <br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
The loneliness...<br/>
<br/>
We will talk about the civil code later<br/>
For the moment, I would like to codify the uncodifiable.<br/>
I would like to measure your monarch butterfly democracies.<br/>
I would like to insert myself into the absolute void and become the unspoken,<br/>
The never happened, the non-virgin by lack of lucidity.<br/>
Lucidity is located in my pants!<br/>
In my pants!
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-77464886215883328082022-01-11T23:38:00.009-08:002022-01-11T23:40:48.224-08:00Julos Beaucarne - Elskamp - Oh Claire Suzanne Adolphine<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4hnRY7onggI" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Text: Max Elskamp<br/>
Year: 1967<br/>
<br/>
My father discovered the poem by <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Max_Elskamp">Max Elskamp</a> and directly went over to Julos so that he'd put it in music as it was about their hometown. They both spent the night creating the song. Julos ended up publishing an extended play with four Max Elskamp poems.<br/>
<blockquote>Oh Claire Suzanne Adolphine<br/>
Oh my mother from the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89caussinnes">Ecaussinnes</a><br/>
Now so far away who is asleep<br/>
Do you remember the summer days ?<br/>
<br/>
Over there in August, when we were going<br/>
To visit our parents<br/>
In their castle of Belle-Tête²<br/>
Built in stones from our region<br/>
<br/>
And who then made celebration<br/>
To you, their daughter, as well as to us<br/>
In this sweet <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallonia">Wallonia</a><br/>
Of clear summer, over there, in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hainaut_Province">Hainaut</a><br/>
<br/>
Where we were hearing some harmony<br/>
Like a voice coming from above<br/>
The noise of the cisels on the stones<br/>
And who sang under the hammers<br/>
<br/>
Like bells ringing in the air<br/>
Or sea in the distance raising her waters<br/>
While like thunders<br/>
Were passing the trains under the elm trees<br/>
<br/>
Oh my mother from the Ecaussines<br/>
It's your blood which speaks in me<br/>
And my soul which confides itself<br/>
In You, and of love, and of faith<br/>
<br/>
Because you were to me like Mary<br/>
Even though I am not Jesus<br/>
And when you were gone<br/>
I knew I had lost everything<br/>
<br/>
Oh Claire Suzanne Adolphine<br/>
Oh my mother from the Ecaussinnes<br/>
Now so far away who is asleep<br/>
Do you remember the summer days ?<br/>
</blockquote>
²Belle-Tête would mean "Pretty head" although I couldn't find trace of such a castleTemporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-5581092532216812712021-11-05T23:23:00.001-07:002021-11-05T23:24:22.545-07:00Léo Ferré - I love you<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/79HcvgiqKfA" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title : "<i>Je t'aime</i>"<br/>
Year: 1982<br/>
<blockquote>I love you<br/>
When there is the sea and then the horses<br/>
Making rounds like in the movie<br/>
But it's way more beautiful in your arms<br/>
When there is the sea and then the horses<br/>
<br/>
When reason is wrong<br/>
And our eyes play at toppling themselves<br/>
And we don't know who is the boss<br/>
When reason is wrong<br/>
<br/>
When we'd miss the end of the world<br/>
And we'd sell eternity<br/>
For that eternal second<br/>
When we'd miss the end of the world<br/>
<br/>
When the devil sees us turn pale<br/>
When it's not possible to draw anymore<br/>
The love flower which is going to open up<br/>
When the devil sees us turn pale<br/>
<br/>
When the machine has started<br/>
When we are not sure where we are anymore<br/>
And we wait to see what is going to happen<br/>
<br/>
I love you<br/>
<br/>
I love you for your voice, for your eyes on the night<br/>
Pour those shouts that you shout from the bottom of the pillows<br/>
And for that movement of the sea, for your life<br/>
That looks like the sea climing up to drown me<br/>
<br/>
I love you for your belly where I'm going to get you<br/>
When your eyes look for the night that swings<br/>
To my hollow that digs you and from which my hurt life<br/>
Runs like a torrent in the bed of the silence<br/>
<br/>
I love you for your open mug over the night<br/>
When your sap climbs like from the bottom of the eras<br/>
Boils in your belly and that I curse you<br/>
To be at the same time my sister, my angel, my light<br/>
<br/>
I love you<br/>
When there is the sea and then the horses<br/>
Making rounds like in the movie<br/>
But it's way more beautiful in your arms<br/>
When there is the sea and then the horses<br/>
<br/>
When reason is wrong<br/>
And our eyes play at toppling themselves<br/>
And we don't know who is the boss<br/>
When reason is wrong<br/>
<br/>
When the devil sees us turn pale<br/>
When it's not possible to draw anymore<br/>
The love flower which is going to open up<br/>
When the devil sees us turn pale<br/>
<br/>
When the machine has started<br/>
When we are not sure where we are anymore<br/>
And we wait to see what is going to happen<br/>
<br/>
I love you<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-57902971176850254562021-11-03T05:19:00.000-07:002021-11-03T05:19:02.551-07:00Barbara - Wait for my joy to come back<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ePmCoEvU3xM" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title : "<i>Attendez que ma joie revienne</i>"<br/>
Year : 1963<br/>
<blockquote>Wait for my joy to come back<br/>
And for that memory to die <br/>
Of that love of so much sorrow<br/>
Which never stop dying<br/>
Before telling me 'I love you'<br/>
Before I'm able to tell it to you<br/>
Wait for my joy to come back<br/>
So that I can smile in the morning<br/>
<br/>
Leave me. Sorrow takes me away<br/>
And I sail on my delirium<br/>
Leave me. Open that door.<br/>
Leave me. I'll come back<br/>
I'll wait for my joi to come back<br/>
And for that memory to be dead<br/>
Of that love of so much sorrow<br/>
For which I wanted to die<br/>
I'll wait for my joy to come back<br/>
So that I can smile in the morning<br/>
For the wind to have dried up my sorrow<br/>
And the night to have calmed my delirium<br/>
<br/>
There is, I heard, a shore<br/>
Where one heals from the ill of loving<br/>
Dead loves are stranded there<br/>
Black shipwrecks from the past<br/>
If you want for my joy to come back<br/>
For me to be able to smile in the morning<br/>
Towards that country where sorrow dies<br/>
I beg you, let me go<br/>
Of my past loves,<br/>
The memory must perish.<br/>
So that, freed from my chain<br/>
Towards you, I could come back<br/>
<br/>
Then, I make the promise to you<br/>
Together we'll go pick up<br/>
In the crazy garden of tenderness<br/>
The flower of love which will open up<br/>
But it's too early to tell you I love you<br/>
Too early to hear you say it<br/>
The voice I hear is his<br/>
They are alive, my memories<br/>
Forgive-me: It's him I love<br/>
The past can not die</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-14579288425646483392021-10-29T23:47:00.002-07:002022-06-14T11:52:40.053-07:00Edith Piaf - You are everywhere<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Zwa-IG1eYKs" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title : "<i>Tu es partout</i>"<br/>
Year : 1943<br/>
<blockquote>We were loving each other quite tenderly<br/>
Like all lovers love one another<br/>
And then one day you left me<br/>
Since I am desperate<br/>
I see you everywhere in the sky<br/>
I see you everywhere on the earth<br/>
You are my joy and my sun<br/>
My night, my days, my clear dawns<br/>
<br/>
You are everywhere because you are in my heart<br/>
You are everywhere because you are my happiness<br/>
All things that are around me<br/>
Even life only represents you<br/>
Sometimes I dream that I'm in your arms<br/>
And that you are speaking to my ear in a low tone<br/>
You are saying things that make the eyes close<br/>
And me, I find that wonderful<br/>
<br/>
Maybe someday you'll come back<br/>
I know that my heart will wait for you<br/>
You will not be able to forget<br/>
The days we have spent<br/>
My eyes are constantly searching for you<br/>
Listen carefully, my heart is calling you<br/>
We will be able to love each other so well<br/>
You will see life will be beautiful ...<br/>
<br/>
You are everywhere because you are in my heart<br/>
You are everywhere because you are my happiness<br/>
All things that are around me<br/>
Even life only represents you<br/>
Sometimes I dream that I'm in your arms<br/>
And that you are speaking to my ear in a low tone<br/>
You are saying things that make the eyes close<br/>
And me, I find that wonderful</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-5322174850404930462021-10-28T23:11:00.007-07:002021-11-12T23:44:21.397-08:00Julos Beaucarne - Victor Hugo - I was not thinking about Rose<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2gBqPhVNvfY" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title : "<i>Je ne songeais pas à Rose</i>"<br/>
Text: Victor Hugo (1856)<br/>
Year: 1969<br/>
<blockquote>I was not thinking about Rose<br/>
Rose came with me to the woods<br/>
We were talking about something<br/>
But I don't remember about what<br/>
<br/>
I was cold like the marbles<br/>
I was walking mindlessly<br/>
I was talking of the flowers of the trees<br/>
Her eye seemed to imply : "After ?"<br/>
<br/>
Dew was offering its pearls<br/>
The thicket its parasols<br/>
I was going forward, I was listening to the blackbirds<br/>
And Rose the nightingales<br/>
<br/>
I, sixteen years old, and the morose look<br/>
Her twenty, her eyes were shining<br/>
The nightingales were singing Rose<br/>
And the blackbirds were whistling at me<br/>
<br/>
Rose, straight on her hips<br/>
Raised her beautiful trembling arm<br/>
To grab a blackberry from the branches.<br/>
I did not see her white arm<br/>
<br/>
Some water was running, fresh and hollow,<br/>
On the velvet mosses<br/>
And the loving nature<br/>
Was sleeping in the big deaf woods<br/>
<br/>
Rose untied her shoe<br/>
And put, with an ingenuous look,<br/>
Her pretty little foot in the pure water<br/>
I did not see her naked foot<br/>
<br/>
I did not know what to tell her<br/>
I was following her in the woods<br/>
Seeing her smile sometimes<br/>
And sigh a few times<br/>
<br/>
I only saw she was beautiful<br/>
When coming out of the big deaf woods<br/>
- So be it, let's not think about it no more ! She said<br/>
- So be it, let's not think about it no more ! She said<br/>
I'm still thinking about it since<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-23391312243695692412021-10-28T03:22:00.002-07:002021-10-28T05:26:56.696-07:00Jacques Bertin - The one who had the hair down the small of her back<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_A3SYc7V5G4" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Text: "<i>Celle qui avait les cheveux dans les reins</i>"<br/>
Year: 1975<br/>
<blockquote>The one who had the hair down the small of her back<br/>
Is she still kneeling over my head ?<br/>
At night, when I sleep, do I enter her garden ?<br/>
Without waking up I go down to her place again<br/>
I recognize the familiar objects one by one<br/>
The steps of stone, the pond, the shed<br/>
The silks I like and which she dresses herself in<br/>
The page where she is, streaked with black and lace<br/>
Teenage girl whose body I loved<br/>
I am thinking of you, I am preparing, I am dreaming<br/>
Night comes back, lost is your hand<br/>
Remain in my shoulder, Oh turtledove !</blockquote><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-75670615464857150312021-07-14T00:04:00.002-07:002021-07-14T01:09:43.110-07:00Charles Aznavour - Paris during the month of August<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dp2srrHiz1s" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "<i>Paris au mois d'août</i>"<br/>
Music: Georges Garvarentz<br/>
Year: 1966<br/>
Song written by Aznavour for the movie "<a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paris_au_mois_d%27ao%C3%BBt_%28film%29">Paris au mois d'août</a>", inspired from the <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paris_au_mois_d%27ao%C3%BBt_%28roman%29">book</a> written by <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ren%C3%A9_Fallet">René Fallet</a>.<br/>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1LTc5i6Vnw">An english adaptation</a> exists, written also by Aznavour in 1967.<br/>
<blockquote>Swept away by September<br/>
Our love of one summer<br/>
Sadly dismembers itself<br/>
And dies in the past<br/>
No matter how I expected it<br/>
My heart emptied of everything<br/>
Looks suspiciously like <br/>
Paris during the month of August<br/>
<br/>
Of tears and laughter<br/>
Our love was made<br/>
Which dreading the worse<br/>
Lived day by day<br/>
Every street, every stone<br/>
Seemed to belong only to us <br/>
We were alone on earth<br/>
In Paris during the month of August<br/>
<br/>
To tell you I love you<br/>
As far away as you are<br/>
A part of myself<br/>
Stays attached to you<br/>
And the other part, solitary<br/>
Looks from everywhere<br/>
For the blinding light<br/>
Of Paris during the month of August<br/>
<br/>
God make that my dream<br/>
To find back some<br/>
Of the month of August on your lips<br/>
Of Paris in your eyes<br/>
Shapes up and revives<br/>
Our slightly crazy love<br/>
So that everything begins again<br/>
In Paris during the month of August</blockquote><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-69277821014911074382021-07-13T06:50:00.000-07:002021-07-13T06:50:20.177-07:00Charles Dumont - She<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JjpcsF3B5zc" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br/>
original title: "Elle"<br/>
Year: 1976<br/>
<blockquote>She<br/>
She is the hope behind the door<br/>
My heart beating in the stairway<br/>
She is my weakness and my strength<br/>
My lie and my thruth<br/>
<br/>
She<br/>
When she is there time stops<br/>
She is of snow, she is of summer<br/>
She is my calm and my tempest<br/>
My wild flower, my orchid<br/>
<br/>
She <br/>
Her red lips imprison me<br/>
In the kisses I give her<br/>
And her white arms are streams<br/>
When she falls asleep against my skin<br/>
<br/>
She<br/>
She is my voluntray exile<br/>
Secret garden of my desires<br/>
She is everything I want to be<br/>
She is everything I want to sayv
<br/>
She<br/>
She is the hope behind the door<br/>
My heart beating in the stairway<br/>
She is the dream taking me away<br/>
Where I can forget everything<br/>
<br/>
She <br/>
Immortal like the stone<br/>
Warm like the grapes of August<br/>
She is my being and my light<br/>
The beginning and the end of everything<br/>
<br/>
She <br/>
She is making me cross the sea<br/>
Figure head of my life<br/>
And it does not matter to me where she is taking me<br/>
Eyes wide open I follow her<br/>
<br/>
She <br/>
She is well the first woman<br/>
Born from a rose a summer evening<br/>
Essential like the flame<br/>
Night sun of my thoughts<br/>
<br/>
She <br/>
She is woman of all types<br/>
She is my life my destiny<br/>
She is my order and my disorder<br/>
I don't want anything else but to love her</blockquote><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-45538365706099524612021-05-21T05:33:00.010-07:002021-11-25T04:22:41.121-08:00Léo Ferré - Caussimon - Both of us<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pEn8gS47604" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original title: "Nous deux"<br/>
Text: Jean-Roger Caussimon <br/>
Year: 1961<br/>
<blockquote>They left without a warning<br/>
With their kids and their guitars<br/>
Our gipsy brothers of Saint-Ouen<br/>
They left in a flurry of wings<br/>
And without return, the swallows<br/>
Paris had no use for them anymore<br/>
Waves of concrete and idiocy<br/>
Drug stores and some strip tease are necessary<br/>
High rises and undergrounds<br/>
And of Boulogne and of Vincennes<br/>
And of the florished quays of the Seine<br/>
Soon nothing will be left no more<br/>
But that day my turtledove<br/>
My girl who's mine, my all beautiful<br/>
My love sister, my mom<br/>
In spite of the planks and the soil<br/>
We'll snuggle up like we can do<br/>
Both of us...<br/>
In spit of the soil and the planks<br/>
We'll cuddle like on Sunday's<br/>
When we go to the movies<br/>
Both of us...<br/>
And let us meet in dream afterwards<br/>
Fascinated like Adam and Eve<br/>
But all proud of having found that<br/>
Both of us...<br/>
<br/>
You see it's written on the frontpage<br/>
We are already fighting over the moon<br/>
Inocent children of tomorrow!<br/>
One general on the planets<br/>
Will follow you with its spyglass<br/>
And will say "It's red with blood ! "<br/>
<br/>
By juggling so much with the bomb<br/>
One day it'll have to fall<br/>
It's its purpose and it's our lot<br/>
That day has to come eventually<br/>
Farewell, Paris and farewell, Vienna<br/>
Farewell Rome and Monte Carlo<br/>
But on that day my turtledove<br/>
My girl who's mine, my all beautiful<br/>
My love sister, my mom<br/>
Be it that everything turns to ice or burns<br/>
It does not matter if we are together<br/>
Us both...<br/>
That everything burns or that every turns to ice<br/>
We'll already have our place<br/>
In the legend of the lovers<br/>
Us both...<br/>
So when the planet will explode<br/>
If the trumpets ever sound<br/>
We'll divinely not care<br/>
Both of us...<br/>
<br/>
People will treat me of artist<br/>
Of being heartless and if it saddens me<br/>
I'd not be surprised of it...<br/>
Because that pitiful and tender heart<br/>
To you only who could take it<br/>
It's been a long time I have given it...<br/>
Just like I give you today<br/>
This song of end of fall<br/>
That thought itself love song<br/>
I'm not a saint nor an apostle<br/>
And to still think of other people<br/>
The time left to me is too short<br/>
In the meanwhile my turtledove<br/>
My girl who's mine, my all beautiful<br/>
My love sister, my mom<br/>
As our souls wander<br/>
Let's kiss very close to the waves<br/>
Of the Ocean of the bad days<br/>
Us both...<br/>
And then to our faithful loves<br/>
In the heart of eternal snows<br/>
Let's get lost forever<br/>
Both of us!<br/>
Both of us!</blockquote><br/>
Jean-Roger Caussimon's version (1970) : <br/>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TvLI3FU-gKA" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe> <br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-15790507395136260962021-04-24T02:46:00.008-07:002023-07-14T06:13:36.645-07:00Léo Ferré - Song for her<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NV0GgjQUuFI" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "<i>Chanson pour elle</i>"<br/>
Year: 1961<br/>
<blockquote>If your body was made of thin lace<br/>
I'd embroide it by the four ends<br/>
And then I'd made so beautiful tablecloths out of it<br/>
That we'd eat love on our knees<br/>
<br/>
If your eyes were ancient stars<br/>
Of those we see but are no more<br/>
I'd look behind the canvas<br/>
Of that big painting of suspended blue<br/>
<br/>
If your crazy hair were the foremast<br/>
And that I made a boat out of your heart<br/>
While going back up the flow of the Seine<br/>
You'd be Paris and I sailor<br/>
<br/>
If your black star where I brighten up<br/>
Was the chalice and if I were God<br/>
I'd drink Death there down to the roots<br/>
And then I'd go away to make the heavens again<br/>
<br/>
If the dead suns of the celestial plains<br/>
Were coming down one day in your faded body<br/>
There would still shine to your modest breasts<br/>
A bit of their flame, a bit of my hunger<br/>
<br/>
A bit of their flame, a bit of my hunger<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-69830585078832868342021-02-27T10:47:00.005-08:002021-04-03T09:12:39.802-07:00Charles Dumont - The prodigal son<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UXi4Lic0if0" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br>
Original title: "<i>Le fils prodigue</i>"<br/>
Year: 1970<br/>
<blockquote>You can sleep without anguish<br>
He is going away and it's for tomorrow<br>
An angel died, an angel passes<br>
He is fed up with your mornings<br>
The youngest of the family<br>
The most tender, the most distant<br>
The one who pleased to your daughter<br>
The one who risks it all<br>
The good for nothing<br>
<br/>
It does not matter how we travel<br>
Boat, plane, pavot flower<br>
To leave is always an illusion<br>
Maybe but it is so beautiful<br>
<br>
You didn't like this young man<br>
With hair too short or too long<br>
Thief of hearts, thief of apples<br>
He is going away. What a blessing<br>
But he is going to pick up stars<br>
Which will florish your skies of beds<br>
To you who stay in the hold<br/>
And do not dare to pay the price<br>
<br/>
It does not matter how we travel<br>
Boat, plane, pavot flower<br>
To leave is always an illusion<br>
Maybe but it is so beautiful<br>
<br>
Undoubtly, luck and glory<br>
Will sow flowers under his steps<br>
Unless that, from dreams to unfortunate events<br>
He gets lost, he drowns himself<br>
Whether he is in the bed of a queen<br>
Whether he makes a last circle in the water<br>
Whether he wins or loses his sorrow<br>
His destiny is one of the most beautiful<br>
<br/>
The end of the journey does not matter<br>
The name of the hero does not matter<br>
The one who carries mirages<br>
Is a flower to your hats<br/>
Is a flower to your hats<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-49813300072756019782021-02-22T03:31:00.007-08:002021-04-03T09:13:26.568-07:00Léo Ferré - The madness<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DivdqTb_tl4" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original title: "<i>La folie</i>"<br/>
Year: 1970<br/>
<blockquote>Van Gogh's chair where you do not sit<br/>
Vincent's shoes which you do not put on<br/>
The ear of that guy who does not listen to you anymore<br/>
Those crows in the wheat of a lost canvas<br/>
<br/>
I do not stop anymore when I see madness<br/>
I run her errands and sleep in her bed<br/>
<br/>
The tears of that tree worried in the forest<br/>
What kind of wood was Vincent's chair?<br/>
The sheeps of the street hide in scarves<br/>
Workers change tune without stopping work<br/>
<br/>
I do not stop anymore when I see madness<br/>
I run her errands and sleep in her bed<br/>
<br/>
The steps of that child in the hell of the Faculty<br/>
Her sex and her virtue, her pill and her stage fright<br/>
When vertigo penetrates and overtakes her<br/>
Under the double and iced eye of an old prostitute's mirror<br/>
<br/>
It's at that moment that I lose madness<br/>
And that I stay alone with my madman's eyes</blockquote><br/>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-26125998370540354412021-02-13T05:39:00.014-08:002021-06-11T06:07:32.887-07:00Léo Ferré - It's great
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bVrulTsu2S8" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original title: "<i>C'est extra</i>"<br/>
Year: 1969<br/>
<blockquote>A leather dress like a spindle<br/>
That would be hot unintentionally<br/>
And inside, like a sailor<br/>
A girl who sways an english tune<br/>
It's great<br/>
The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moody_Blues">Moody Blues</a> singing the night<br/>
Like some satin of a married's white<br/>
And in the harbor of this night<br/>
A girl who sways and comes to berth*<br/>
<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
<br/>
Some hair falling like the evening<br/>
And some music at the bottom of the loins<br/>
That jazz jazzing in the dark<br/>
And that ache that feels good<br/>
It's great<br/>
Those hands playing some rainbow<br/>
On the guitar of life<br/>
And then those shouts raising to the sky<br/>
Like a shining cigarette<br/>
<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
<br/>
Some stockings holding high up<br/>
Like the strings of a violin<br/>
And that flesh troubled by<br/>
The bow that runs my song<br/>
It's great<br/>
And under the barely closed veil<br/>
That tuft of black jésus<br/>
Streaming down in its craddle<br/>
Like a swimmer noone expects anymore<br/>
<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
<br/>
A leather dress like an oversight<br/>
That would be hot unintentionally<br/>
And inside, like a grey morning,<br/>
A girl swaying and keeping quiet<br/>
It's great<br/>
The Moody Blues who do not care<br/>
That amp not meaning anything no more<br/>
And in the music of the silence<br/>
A girl who sways and comes dying<br/>
<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
It's great<br/>
</blockquote>
*: To berth in French uses the same verb as to wet, originates from wetting the anchor used in a different context here.
Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7089295085604136461.post-7116181677184481902021-01-31T01:16:00.001-08:002021-01-31T01:16:21.399-08:00Jacques Bertin - The child was coughing on the other side of the wall<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6471nnIF5m0" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe><br/>
Original Title: "L'enfant toussait de l'autre côté du mur"<br/>
Year: 1975<br/>
<blockquote>The child was coughing on the other side of the wall, they were fine<br/>
They had done everything that had to be done<br/>
They even had some times left<br/>
Him, had picked up a book, he didn't feel like going out<br/>
He found himself growing old and feeling good<br/>
He desired her but how to know?<br/>
Maybe she was distracted, he didn't dare<br/>
She was pacing in the house. She didn't dare<br/>
</blockquote>Temporelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13127970078812756280noreply@blogger.com0