Jean-Marie Vivier - What I do not tell you

Original Title: C'que j'te dis pas
Year: 1991

If I were to tell you what I do not tell you
And that I've never been able to tell
I, so shy and clumsy
Aside from when I'm in my frenzy

If I told you: you are like a sky
letting all its sorrow cry
Way more precious than a rainbow
As it comes to die in my hand

If I told you: you are a star
For a Pierrot who plays so badly
And who never reveals himself
Or dirties himself sideways

If I dared to tell you what I do not tell you
Houses full of dreams
and of tendernesses at every finger
Where I learn my keys again

If I dared to say that you are an island
Where we board everytime
We have the heart way too fragile
And like it, you are always there

If I dared to say that you are the port of call
Where I lay my sad mornings
On the pathway you are my lantern
To keep the artist's life going

Tonight I tell you what I do not tell you
You are like a bedhead book
Which we rediscover every time
And which never ends

You are a hundred thousand days per second
And all the seconds of my life
One hundred thousands places merging together
To form a single country

You are Time runnning after the hours
To stop their steps
To tame happiness
Tonight I tell you what I do not tell you

I love you
I love you

Jacques Bertin - To pass winter

Original Title: "Passer l'hiver"
Year: 1991

I'd again have let winter pass
Without redoing the roofstructure eaten by the worms
Nor at last writen that letter
About love, about the emptiness eating the being

I'd have loved badly, very, all my women
Badly looked after all my fires and flames
I'd not have seen the word under the door
But I'd have screamed in buckets of dead water

I'd have spoken badly for my hopes
Spent all the goods of my parents
In all the danses lost my footing
Made the punch where I shouldn't.

I'd have invoked words and gods
Without holding back the water piercing the dam
Nor the golden fishes jumping in your eyes
Nor the silhouette with its luggage

I'd have waited dawn and man a long time
Then I'd have fallen asleep too early
When maybe I was dawn and that man
I am cold in my coat

Night unwinds itself and the sun is melting
And I'd have let the beautiful bot
run on its area. It's run aground on the shallows
Of your eyes, your silence, your desert!

I'd have let my son like a thief
Run away through the narrow door under my heart
He went looking for a bullet to the forehead
My little fighter, my resemblance

It'd always have taken life from very high
And without not having betrayed father and mother
I'd have let winter enter by the broken window
I'd have let all my birds die from cold.

Jacques Bertin - The supervisor of the high school for girls

Original Title: "La pionne du lycée des filles"
Year: 1991

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

She is crazy indeed, she runs in the street
Cleaving through groups for fifty years
With the look of not seeing anything, covered head, bare head.
She rushes towards climaxes, towards returns, and her twenties

At the highschool, year nineteen hundred thirty eight, the look of a prince
A science graduate, gold-rimmed spectacles and blue eyes,
Has arrived, a match for the whole province.
All those girls of canons and egg merchants

The city is grey and the rain tells its breviary every day
As soon as seven o'clock rings we curl up in its walls
We change the flowers in the vases, we marry our daughter, we spare the light
We change nothing, the money oozes, the students have a tough gaze

In her bedroom over the canal, he was reading her Apollinaire for the other silence
And the music in his eyes, the pretty pupil of war from Montfort-over-Meu
Then, in september, it was the end of the holidays
He was so well in the blue uniform

Thifty years ago those days, the time passes only for those who count
He jumped over Norway, in may. Only mad love defies the time
The poet said "Why don't I have...." and "Remember that I am waiting for you"
As long as this city lasts, lasts life, I wait for you

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Go in your despise of mankind, of the reasonable people
Black and blue flower, dead-living flower which casts itself in the azures
"The streets are narrowing" He said, the drift of the continents is unavoidable
You spray rains of stars over the walls

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Jacques Bertin - Mario

Year: 1991

It's the heart which is hurting,
I think, Mario,
It's simply the heart
But of a so infinitely
tiny sorrow that a violin
wouldn't be able, even at the thinest
of its register, to appease it.
Mario, barely in the distance,
the rainy days, a smoke.

Like the invisible drawing
of a bird's flight in the limpid air
A sorrow but everything is calm
None of those sharp pains.
Blood. And none of those masses
in the sky threatening with clouds
Like a destruction. It's the heart.

Simply pinned, Mario,
The heart nailed like an image
On a water coloured life
On a decor with dead colors
Or like a poster, Mario,
Dried up on a door
And of which a scrap moves under the light air.

The heart that says of a so timid
way that it can not
go further in this life
destined nevertheless to the high seas.
And yet the universe inflexible
Creaks under the horn and is taking
care of us, like the implacable eye of the people.

Am I so old? I who talked
to this weather like a prophet
To the religion good and cheerful
Every battle was feast to me.
I am as if a bailiff
carrying high the candelabra
In full daylight, in my own heart,
among the dunes was taking me away.

Where I sink with every step
Losing my breath under the mask.
Unless it's my heart,
my old Mario, there, this small boat
Burried in the sand tide
And with a grass sweet to the feet
is covered and held by the lifeless
line of the poplar trees.