Leny Escudero - The journey

Original Title: "Le voyage"
Year: 1974

(Him) Tell me, is it for now?
You always say "Wait"
And that we have plenty of time
To make the journey

(Her): It's true it's too early
Harness the horses
Call back the crew
We are barely fifteen years old

(Him) We are fifteen years old, it's true
But I love you, you know
I know the East and the West
I know the North
It's the South I want
The South is in your eyes

(Her) Come on, wait
One must be wise
You crumpled my blouse
One must be patient
We have time
For the light-hearted gallantries
We'll do it your nice journey
We are always twenty years old

(Him) We are always twenty years old
But not for very long
One day we are thirty years old
And then one day fourty
And then we do not count no more
It's time which is counting us
And there, there is more than
necessary in the fairytales

(Her) Oh you were right
I beg for your forgiveness
If I had known
That you'd be my companion
But I could not have known
You who were the first
That you would be the only one
That you'd be the last
Come, it's our last wrecking
We'll do it, the journey
Yes, but just the two of us
Come, put your hand in mine
Don't be afraid, I'm holding you tight

(Him) Oh, don't push me
You are expected over there
It's not that I am tormented
To go in hell
But I can't now
I have something to do
After all there is no hurry
I want my share of caresses
I've the regret of the vine arbour
I want to finish my bottle

(Her) Do not leave me
I'm afraid to get cold
Oh, come right against me
If you loved me
Like I loved you
You only loved me
Tell me, my love
For the last time

Monique Morelli - Villon - The legacy

Original Title: "L'an quatre cent cinquante six (Le Lais)"
Text: François Villon
Music: Lino Léonardi
Year: 1974
Quite a difficult translation, will need a rework

Year Fourteen hundred fifty six
I, François Villon, student
Considered, having stale sense,
The bit between the teeth, being straightforward
That we must advise his work ,
Like Vegetius says
Wise Roman, big conseillor
Or else we are mistaken ...

In those times, I talked about,
Around Christmas, dead seasons,
That the wolves live of the wind,
And that we hold ourself in our home
For the wintry weather, near the brand
Come to me the desire to break
The very loving prison
Which always was unbreaking my heart

I did it in such a way
Seeing her in front of my eyes
Agreeing to my undoing
Without anything being better for her
Of which I mourn and complain to the sky
By requesting vengeance of her
To all the victorious gods
And alleviation of the love grief

And if I took in my favor
Those sweet regrets and pretty pretenses
Of very disappointing taste,
Piercing through me up to the sides
Fine they have their white feet towards me
And fail me when in great need
Seed, I must, other complaints
And hit in another corner

The look of That one took me
Who was perfedious and tough to me
Without this would have any contempt
Wants and commands that I endure
Death and that I do not last anymore
If I see no other assistance but in fleeing
Break up the keen binding
Without hearing my pious regrets!

To obviate to those dangers
The best for me is, I believe, to go away
Farewell! I'm going to Angers
As she does not want to grant me
Her grace, nor abandoning me
By her, die the healthy limbs
Deep inside, I am a martyr lover
Among the loving saints!

Jacques Bertin - In Besançon

Original title: "A Besançon"
Year: 1974

In Besançon that year,
A thousand men and women stood up.

Do we do verses with immediate news?
Poet, is it your role to testify for the birthing fire?
Can one write songs on those women
Who put themselves on Sunday² for eight months because it had to be shown
That we were respectable people
And that the strike, it's not carelessness it's strictness

Thus you make verses with the dignity of others
Poet, from your bedroom among your books
Is it fit to salute the working class
From far, when maybe, your verses, she would not understand anything to them?

You'll have to resign yourself to it
The spark it is not me
I go from town to town
I carry the fire, I am the blood
Oh young women, who came down on Besançon
That year, toward the fifteen August while carrying like a sacrifice
Your clamors because it was the first time and you were a big scared
I stay on the edge of you, shy, not daring to do anything
Can one do verses with the solemnity of your gestures and your honor?

You stood up
Suddenly you became the hope of the world
The hope of the world, you, small clothes-conscious ladies and ordinary, without passion
The first day, one of you said "The strike will be long
It's with the feet in the snow that we'll end"
It's thus easy to make verses about courage and about fear

One makes verses with hope, with life
With nails clinging to the reality
With words which have been whispered to me that winter
In Besançon because the wind blows in the back of the poet
And riddles him with words which does not belong to him

² A saying to say that they weren't pay/took a pay leave.
Another version:

Monique Morelli - François Villon - Epistle to my friends

Original Title: "Epître à mes amis"
Year: 1974

Have pity, have pity of me
At least, please, my friends
In grave I lie down, not under holy nor may
In that exile to which I am sent
By Fortune, like it was allowed by God
Girls liking young people and new
Dancers, jumpers, making the calf's foot²
Vivacious like javelins, sharp like stings
Ringing throat clear like bells³

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Cantors singing at leisure, without law,
Gallants laughing, pleasing in facts and words,
Itinerant merchant going frank with fake gold, of alloy,
People of spirit, a little scatterbrain,
Resurrect too much because he dies in the meanwhile
Maker of lays, of motets and rondeaux,
When dead will be, you will make him chaudeaux*
Where he lays down, no lightning nor whirlwind enters
With thick walls his bandages have been made

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Come to see him in that pitiful equipage
Noble men, free of quarter and tenth**,
Who hold nothing of Emperor nor King
But only of God of Paradise
To go without food he needs on Sundays and Tuesdays
Whose teeth has longer than rake
After dry bread, not after cakes
In his bowels pours water gushing out
Deep in ground, table has not nor trestles

Named princes, old, striplings,
Obtain me pardon and royal seals.
And carry me up in some basket
As the pigs do, to one another
Because, where one brays, they run away in a heap

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

²Lifting the leg of a comical way when dancing
³Cascaveaux could be the bells shaken to announce plague epidemics
*drink made of pouring warm milk over an egg
**apparently referring to tax and tithe

Monique Morelli - Villon - Poor I am

This is an extract of the great will of Villon (XVth Century).
Original Title: "Pauvre je suis"
Year: 1974

In the thirtieh year of my age
That all my shames I'd have drunk
Nor completely crazy, nor completely wise
In spite of many sorrows I had

Which I all received
Under the hand of Thibaut d'Aussigny...
If Bishop he is, lording the streets,
That he is mine I deny him!

My lord he is not, nor my bishop
Under him nothing holds if not lieing fallow
Faith owes him no tribute
I am not his serf nor his doe
Fed with a small loaf
and of cold water a whole summer
Broad or narrow, a lot has been meagre to me
Let God be to him like he was to me.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

And if someone wants to reprimand me
And say that I curse him
Not done, if one can well understand
In no way do I speak ill of him

Here is all the bad that I have to say:
If he has been mercifull to me
Jesus, the king of paradise
Let him be alike to the soul and body!

If he has been tough and cruel to me
Much more than here is told
I want that the eternal God
Is to him then alike to that account

And if the church tells us and relates
That we should pray for our enemies
I would tell you: "I am wrong and ashamed
Whatever he did to, commited it to God"

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Over poverty bemoaning
Many times the heart tells me:
"Man, do not be so upset
And do not exert such pain,

If you do not have as much heart as Jack:
Better to live under big clog
Poor, than having been lord
And rot under rich tomb!"

If I am not, well considered,
Son of angel wearing tiara
of Stars nor stagger others.
My father is dead, God have his soul!

As to the body, it lies under the blade
I understand that my mother will die
And she knows it well the poor woman,
And the son will not resurect.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

I know that poors and richs,
Wise and mad, priests and ugly ones,
Nobles, vilains, big and meager,
Small and tall, and beautiful and ugly,

Ladies with rolled up short capes,
Of any condition,
Wearing attires and rolls,
Death grabs without exception.

Death make them shudder and go pale,
The nose to curve, the veins to stretch,
The neck to swell, the flesh to go soft,
Joints and nerves to grow and spread.

Feminine body, which is so tender,
Polished, silky, so precious
Will you have to wait for those ills?
Yes, or all alive go to heavens.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Jacques Bertin - That's it, it's this night

Original Title: "Voilà, c'est cette nuit"
Year: 1974

That's it. It's this night, you have been run over by a car
Goblin plaza you are losing your blood in front of four or five night owls
You notice that the agents are slow and that you are not afraid

Today, tuesday, your mom is ironing the linen
She has no news from you
You wouldn't have written much while saying a few not very clever verses
Aside in insolence and friendship you didn't have that many talents
You lived, you attended to the most urgent things first, you have lost your time

I have lost my time and my life attempting to be free
I have lived happily fighting between the silence and the difficult words
The ambulance I recognize it, it ressembles to my childhood bed
My older brother is next to me, he is playing harmonica to me
I am going to die at the hour I like, at the hour when I liked to live
The night I was watching over you my friends known and unknown
I penetrated between your closed eyelids in the warmth of the small boats
Or in your dreams which are to all the same and talk of justice

It's a nice hour to die and it's a nice place
Dawn is coming like a woman's belly in its folly of leaves
I spent my life getting ready for that moment
Younger brother of all the free men

Jacques Bertin - I have not much to say

Original Title: "J'ai peu de choses à dire"
Year: 1974

I have not much to say, afterall
I am not looking for much
And everything else it's a clothing over me
More or less tailored

I can well share your combat, your certainties,
blotting paper
The ill, mine, is elsewhere
A lantern that remained lit

I write, my wife sleeps
I gather a meager luggage
some meager goods
Some vague ideas
Attempts of notions

All what I subscribe to
is that in good understanding
One has to admit
remains of your wardrobes,
ideas of revolution

What do I have that belongs to me?
My mother who washes on mondays
When she cries it's because her eyes are full of soap
The linen dries, the kitchen is wet
The radio covers the shouts of the kids

I have nothing but a banal childhood
Like a cardboard schoolbag
Oh the warm apartments
The beautiful ladies
Men who talk very well
and read progressive newspapers

As if the world belonged to you
Oh young men of means
You are the best up unto the revolt
Oh impeccable rebels

What do I have that belongs to me?
The silence of the children of the poors
And two or three details to tell to the buddies
The days of abandon

A sunday morning during the winter
One day when I was a kid
It was warm, outside I hear the dynamo pass

What is it? My possession.
What can I put in the balance?
A memory devoid of interest
A Good Friday night We were going
to drink a 25 francs coffee
On a countryside table

Downtown some gentlemen and ladies
talk about the poets
with some deportment
What do I have to say?
Noone gave me the right to speak

I have the coat pierced to the winds
to the stars of the revolution
I am on my bicycle
I come home by the white cross
Oh my father and my mother
Leave the garage lit
I come back home

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad to pray Our Lady

Original Title: "Ballade pour prier Notre Dame"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century, written for his mother)
Year: 1974
Richard Stokes also made a great translation of it here, there are a few mistakes/liberties taken however that I try to correct below.

Lady of the sky, regent of the earth,
Empress of the infernal swamps
Receive me, your humble Christian,
Let me be contained among your chosen
Even though I had never any worth
Kindnesses from you, my Lady and my Mistress,
Are way bigger than I am sinner
Without those kindnesses, soul can not be rewarded
with the heavens. I am not talkative about it:
In this faith I want to live and die.

To your Son tell that I am his;
From him let my sin be abolished
Forgive me like you did to the Egyptian woman
Or like he did to the cleric Theophilus,
who, by you, was acquitted and absolved
No matter how many promises he had made to the devil
Preserve me from ever doing such a thing
Virgin who bore without incurring blemish
The sacrament that is celebrated during the mass:
In this faith I want to live and die.

Woman, I am poor and ancient,
Who knows nothing; never having read any letter.
See at the monastery, of which I am parishioner
Painted paradise, where harps and lutes are,
And one hell where the damned are boiled
One scares me, the other is joy and jubilation
To have that joy makes me, high Goddess,
To whom sinners must all appeal to,
Filled with faith, without feint nor laziness:
In this faith I want to live and die.

You carried, worthy Virgin, princess,
Ruling Jesus who has no end nor rest.
The All-Mighty, taking our weaknesses,
left the heavens and came to our rescue,
Offered to death his dear youth;
Our Lord is such, I confess it so:
In this faith I want to live and die.

Monique Morelli - Villon - Epitaph (Ballad of the hangmen)

Original Title: "Epitaphe (Ballade des pendus)"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century)
Year: 1974, 1968 (Reggiani's reading)

Brothers human who after us live
Do not have the hearts hardened against us
Because, if pity of us poors have
God would rather have mercy of you
You see us here tied up by five or six
As of the flesh, that we have fed too much,
It's devoured and roten for a long time
And we, the bones, become ash and powder
Of our misfortune let noone laugh about:
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

If brothers we call you, you do not have
Disdain from it, although we have been slayed
By Justice. However you know
That all men do not have the mind go stale
Pardon us, as we are chilled to the bone
Toward the Son of the Virgin Marie
Let his grace not be dried up for us
Preserving us from the infernal thunderbolt
We are dead, do not harass our soul
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

The rain has soaked us and washed us
And the sun dried us out and blackened
Magpies, crows have our eyes hollowed out
And teared off the beard and the eyebrows
Never a moment are we sitting:
Then here and there, like the wind varies
At his will, endlessly, sweeps us along,
More pecked by birds than a thimble
So do not be of our brotherhood
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

Prince Jesus, who on everything has control
Be careful that Hell does not rule over us
To him have nothing to do or settle with
Men here have no mockery
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

Serge Reggiani's version:

Monique Morelli - Villon - Rondeau (Death, I appeal against your harshness)

Original Title: "Rondeau (Mort, j'appelle de ta rigueur)"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century)
Year: 1974

Death,
I appeal against your harshness
which has ravished me my mistress
And is not assuaged yet
If you do not hold me in languidness:

Since,
had nor strength nor vigour
But what harm was she doing to you alive,
Death ?
But what harm was she doing to you alive,

Two we were
and had only one heart;
If it's dead, no choice but to deviate,
indeed, or for me to live lifeless
Like the images, by heart,
Death !

Jacques Bertin - Time went by like a charm

Original Title: "Le temps a passé comme un charme"

Year: 1974

Time went by like a charm
The neighbor prays for her children.
She prays for you as well, she has no tenderness for your science.
The street remained motionless under the flowers
Since that day of may...fifteen years ago.
A white car threaded it's way between the gardens
All the women stood up in their kitchen
"Madam, we bring back your dying husband"
It was midday, the frying pan remained on the fire
The ambulance, it's the daughter of the sun.
My mother runs, runs to the neighbor's.
The painter comes out on his steps,
the dogs are brought in a low voice.
That day you are going to school without eating:
an apple and a prayer.
Our neighbor is dead and I am late.
The aunts came from Anjou to take care of the house
Today I have dead people well at their place in my landscape.
The words are following close behind me like hail
I'll make a cloister for the remembrance of my folks
I'll doze off in my memory, because of the neighbors' friendship.

Oh talk to me about your childhood to the tears
Huddle up against me, huddle up tightly

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad of small talks

Original Title: "Ballade des menus propos"
Text: François Villon (XVth century)

Year: 1974

I know well flies in milk
I know man at his dress
I know the nice weather from the bad
I know the apple from the apple tree
I know the tree from seeing its gum
I know when everything is alike
I know who works and who is idle
I know everything, save my own self

I know pourpoint from the neck
I know the monk from the gown
I know the master from the valet
I know the nun from her veil
I know when trickster uses jargon
I know mad women fed with creams*
I know wine by the ton
I know everything, save my own self

I know horse and mule
I know their load and their sleep time
I know Beatrix and Belet
I know tokens that numbers sums
I know vision and dreams²
I know the fault³ of the Bohemians
I know the power of Rome
I know everything, save my own self

Prince, I know everything all in all
I know colored and pale ones
I know death which consumes everything
I know everything, save my own self

*cheeses associated with madness
² reality from dreams
³ Heresy of Hussite

Jacques Bertin - Three bouquets

Original Title: "Trois bouquets"

Year: 1974

Three bouquets of flowers
Near the bed
Among the books

The peace that settles here
Because of you
The first bouquet for the child we won't make
The second for the song of men
From which we are separated
The third because you love me: carnations

Three bouquets of flowers
Near the bed
Among the books

One day we will stop fleeing
O my child
One day, we will meet again
I will tell you:
You grew old

On a sad bank
In the silt, you are beautiful
And chilled to the bone

Companions cover our love with your human voices
Coat of revolts
Coat of wool
The one I love is cold

Monique Morelli - Villon - I pity the time of my youth

Original Title: "Je plains le temps de ma jeunesse"
Text: François Villon
Music: Lino Léonardi
Year: 1974

I pity the time of my youth
During which I have enjoyed more than others
Until the entrance of old age
That has its advancement concealed
It did not go on foot
Nor on horseback: Alas! How then?
Suddenly has flown away
And didn't leave me any gift

Gone has been and I remain
Poor of sense and knowledge
Sad, failed, more black than moor
Who has no sense, income has not
The least of my own, I speak the truth,
Commits himself to disown me
Forgetting natural duty
For lack of a little inheritance
For lack of a little inheritance

Eh! God, if I had studied
At the time of my crazy youth
And to good morals dedicated
I would have house and soft bed
But what? I fled school
Like does the bad child
While writing this word
Close for my heart to break
Close for my heart to break

My days have gone wandering
Like, says Job, of a tablecloth
Make the nets, when weaver
in his fist holds a burning straw
When if he has no end that sticks out
Suddenly he robs it
If I do not fear that anything assaults me anymore
Because in death everything is satisfied
Because in death everything is satisfied

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad of Blois contest

Original Title: "Ballade du concours de Blois"
Text: François Villon (1458)
Year: 1974

I die of thirst beside the fountain
Hot as fire, and trembling tooth to tooth
In my own country, I am in a distant land
Near a blaze, shiver all burning
Bare as a worm, dressed like a president,
I laugh in tears and wait without hope
Taking my comfort back in sad despair
I rejoyce and have no pleasure at all
Powerful I am, without strength or power,
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Nothing for me is sure but the uncertain matter
Obscure except what is completely obvious
Doubt I don't make except in certainties
Knowledge holds to a sudden accident
I win everything and remain loser
At daybreak, say: "God give you good evening!"
Lying on the wrong side I am greatly afraid of falling
I have means and if I have none of it
Expecting inheritance and of man I'm no heir
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Taking care of nothing if I go through a lot of trouble
to acquire goods to which I'm no claimant
Who compliments me the most is the one who hurts me the most
And who is more true then tells more lies about me
My friend is the one who makes me understand
that a white swan is a black crow
And who harms me, believes he helps me provide
Truth, lies, today all is the same to me
I remember everything, can't imagine anything
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Lenient Prince, may it please you to know
that I understand a lot and have no wit nor knowledge
Biased I am, alike to every law
What do I know more? What! Redeem what I’ve been pledged,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by each.

Jacques Bertin - Portrait of Aude

Original Title: "Portrait d'Aude"
Year: 1974

She was coming back home early to settle herself in her dream
She did not see many people: she had so much to dream about
She was not going out often, with one or two childhood friends
After five years she did not know how to find her bearings in Paris

Time passed, she was now going slowly on her thirties
She had exhausted the wonderful field of dream
She was dreaming less. She was not seeing many people.
She was not going out often: she was making long days

She was falling asleep and drew a smile.
I've slowly left her body in my sticking warmth
It was near Place d'Italie: ruins, wind, building sites
From far you could see her lightened up window in the night.