Monique Morelli - Seghers - Forbidden shores

Original Title: "Rives défendues"
Text: Pierre Seghers
Year: 1970

Along the forbidden shores
Along the astounded loves
Along the time I've lost
You, You my elusive love
Nothing more than a trace in the sand
Never seen, never heard

I took solitary paths
Which turned around the earth
There, I've learned to keep quiet for a long time
You, you were shouting in my chest
A lost shout of wildfowl
Where my mysteries were tearing one another apart

I've held secret like a fire
Love which is written with chalk
On the walls and in the forests
You, You were pursuing me endlessly
Like my shadow, like my distress
Like a reflection on the marsh

Over me, sometimes, you leaned
In your gaze a swath
Of tears, of exchanged tears
You, you were seeing me like a cloud
Vanishing in the bottom of the beaches
Annihilating myself in my dive

So leaving one another
We were going beyond time
To die where the wind is waiting for us
You, you were soon nothing more than a gesture
Than a mirage or what's left of it
And yet, I'll be waiting for you for a long time.

Monique Morelli - Aragon - Santa Espina

Text: Louis Aragon
Year: 1970
This poem is about a catalan Sardane, Santa Espina (Holy Thorn), which had been outlawed by the dictatures of Rivera and Franco.

I remember a tune that could not be heard without the heart beating
And the blood being on fire
Without the fire starting again like an heart under the ash
And we finally knew why the sky is blue

I remember a tune alike to the air from the open sea
A tune alike to the shout of the migrating birds
A tune of which the sob seems to carry in the margin
The revenge of the seas on their tamers

I remember a tune which we whistled in the shadow
During the times without sun, nor errant knights
When childhood was crying and in the catacombs
A pure people was dreaming of the death of tyrants

He was carrying in its name the holy thorns
Which gives, at the forehead of a god, his colored tears
And the song in the flesh, like an anchored smallboat
Revived his wound and reopened his pain

Noone would have dared to put words
On this tune humming all the forbidden words
The universe ravaged with ancient poxes
It was your hope and your four thursdays

I search in vain its heartbreaking sentences
But the earth only has tears of Opera left
At the memory of those murmuring waters is missing
The call from spring to spring of the tenoras

Oh Holy Thron Oh Holy Thorn resume
We were listening to you standing up in time past, remember
Who could restore your romance nowadays
Give back the voice to the singing woods which went quiet

I want to believe that there are musics still
In the mysterious heart of the country there
The mute will talk again and the paralytics
Will walk a fine day at the sound of the cobla

And we'll see fall from the forehead of the Son of Man
The crown of blood symbol of misfortune
And Man will sing loudly this time as
If life was beautiful and hawthorn in blossom

All poems written by Louis Aragon

Monique Morelli - Gaston Couté - Washday

Original Title: "Jour de lessive"
Text: Gaston Couté
His poems were first published in 1928 after his death.
Year: 1963

I left this very morning
Still drunk from the night but taken
of what's like an extreme digust
Spitting my farewell to Paris
And here I am, my good woman,
Yes, bust like four coins
My laundry is dirty so is my soul...
Here I am home!

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

Here is that linen on which dripped many
And many times a bitter wine,
Where bitches with painted lips
have wiped their mouth of hell
And here my soul, darker
Of the same blemishes - Alas!
Than the front of my shirt
Grey, pink and lilac...

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

At the bottom of the cuvier where we sow,
among the water, the ash from the oven,
Let all my bohemian linen
rest for a whole day...
And at last let my soul, alike
to that saddening display,
Among your soul - Oh good old woman!
Rest a moment...

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

Just like the linen confides
Its shame to the sweetnes of water
When I'll have recounted my life
Miserable of awful bastard,
Like one rinces in the fountain
The linen coming out of the cuvier
Mother, water my soul in sorrow
With a little mercy!

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

And when you will come to spread out
The linen parfumed of yellow flag
All white among the tender whiteness
Of the hedge where the month of May is blooming
I want to see my soul, still pure
In spite of its long sleep
In pain and filth,
Come back to life under the Sun!...

Gabriel Yacoub's version:

Monique Morelli - Pierre de Ronsard - Sweetheart, let's go and see if the rose

Text: Pierre de Ronsard
Year: 1978
Original title: "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose"

Sweetheart*, let's go and see if the rose
Which had opened this morning
Its crimson dress under the sun,
Has not lost this vespers²,
the folds of its scarlet dress,
And its complexion alike to yours.

Alas! See how in such a short space (of time),
Sweetheart, she has right there
Alas, alas, let her beauties fall
Oh really cruel mother Nature,
As such a flower only lasts,
from the morning to the evening!

So if you believe me, sweetheart,
While your age blossoms,
In it's greenest novelty,
Pick up, pick up your youth:
Like to this flower, the old age
Will make your beauty tarnished

* Cute one
²Evening between dusk and the dark of the night
Mignarda, Luth duo version

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!

Monique Morelli - Mac Orlan - The girl of the woods

Original Title: "La fille des bois"
Text: Pierre Mac Orlan
Music: Léo Ferré
Year: 1962 (Morelli's version)

When I recollect my beautiful childhood
And the patters I heard
About the month of may and its hopes
I was the fledgling trapped in birdlime.
I was a child, it's unquestionable
But an ugly child like I do not know what.
By definition a guilty child,
Seeking after the adventure, in the evening at the corner of a wood.

At the corner of that wood was crying the little owl
She had the look of it but that bitch
Instead of moaning was making fun of me for being flat broke
And of my bare feet turned blue by the cold
One night I caught sight at the branches of an oak tree
Two or three hangmen by way of flags
Some rooks looked like ebony fruits
So I half-made the sign of the cross

It was the masterwork of a grand captain
Who was populating the country of his memories
I was way too young to feel my sorrow;
It didn't stop me from falling back asleep.
The rascals coming from a poor village
Were galloping at night for fear of the sardonic ones*
But I, I was probably waiting for a beautiful page
Dressed in scarlet colors, nice hair like a king

Nature is good for everything that moves;
Later a good-for-nothing took me by the hand.
Those at the corner of the wood were calling him Auneau the Red²;
He told me "Jump rascally wench, the bed is in the hay"
It has been the tender and libertine fair
Up to the cursed day where I saw him all straighten up
In the livid dawn when the guillotine
Was stretching its two arms out in front of the belfry

Then as an end is necessary to every thing,
As decrepit as a sheard owl
I came back to strike my pose again
At the edge of the wood of the good ol' time lost.
It's the time of the end for the old hussies.
I do not worth more than a bundle of dead wood
It's maybe the image of a life without wisdom
But about wisdom...it wasn't my strong point.

*vagabond soldiers
²Criminal of the end of the 18th century
Pauline Julien's version

Monique Morelli - Ronsard - When I see you

Original Title: "Quand je vous vois"
Text: Pierre de Ronsard
Year: 1978

When I see you, or when I think of you
Of a shiver all my heart quivers
My blood stirs and of a fertile thought
Another one grows, so sweet is the subject to me.

I tremble all of nerves and knees
Like the was in the fire, I distil myself
My reason falls and my strength useless
Leaves me cold breathless and without pulse.

I look like the dead, who is tumbled down the grave
So gaunt am I, dreadful and pale
Seeing my senses turn into death

And somehow I take pleasure in my embers.
Of an alike ill one and the other feel comfortable
I to die and you to kill me.

All poems written by Ronsard

Monique Morelli - Ronsard - To drink over the tender grass

Original Title: "Pour boire dessus l'herbe tendre"
Text: Pierre de Ronsard
Year: 1978

To drink over the tender grass
I want to lie down under a bay-tree
And want that Love, with a small blade
Or of flax or of hemp
Tucks up to the side
Her light dress
And half-naked, pour me wine.

The uncertain life of man
From day to day unfolds like
Onto the riverbanks rolls the waves
Then, after our final hour,
Nothing of us remains in the coffin
But a little ash from our bones

I do not wish, as is the custom,
For my tomb to be perfumed with incense,
Nor for scents to be poured over it,
But so long as I am alive
To wear perfume I feel like
And to crown myself with flowers,

Of myself, I want to make myself,
The hair to sastisfy my own self;
I do not want to live for anyone else
Fool the Pelican who hurts himself
For his likes, and crazy the one who lets himself
For his likes work in boredom

Corydon, go and summon my love.
Before that the small boat turned pale
Sends me to the eternal nights,
I want with full cup and with her
To take away the pain
Of my lamentable troubles.

All poems by Ronsard

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

Monique Morelli - Louis Aragon - The crazy woman

Original Title: "La folle"
Text: Louis Aragon
Music: L. Leonardi

Year: 1966

Have a look at this crazy woman and her ankle shoes
She has all the streams in her enamel eyes
She has all the birds on her straw hat
And her handbag her dreams of when she was twenty years old

Have a look at this waste of tulle and anemone
That dusty dream like an old ashtray
It's yesterday's sheet on the calendar
The faded refrain of an autumn song

Have a look at this smile and that flutter
Almost nothing would be enough for us to start believing them
Would it be for the deep cruelty of the mirrors
And that faded reflection which looks like a renunciation

It's my life, I well have to recognize her
It's my life, and it's me, that distorted song
One fine evening the future is called the past
It's then that we turn and see our youth...

What more were you expecting, which fate, which adventure
Which glory for you only or which stolen happiness
What else are you in the end but what the wheat is to the millstone
What the ash is to the fire, the body to the torture...

I don't see really what grieves you here
Or gives you the right to shout in the night
Your destiny resembles you and your shadow follows you
The crazy ones are those who think themselves others

All poems written by Louis Aragon

Monique Morelli - Ronsard - Time is going away

Original Title: "Le Temps s'en va"
Text: Pierre de Ronsard
Year: 1978

Time is going away, time is going away, my Lady,
Alas! Time does not but we, we are going away,
And soon we will be stretched out under the blade
Time is going away, time is going away, my Lady,

I am sending you a bouquet, that my hand,
Just selected among those flowers in full bloom
Which if had I not picked them up during those vespers
Would have fallen to the ground tomorrow

Time is going away, time is going away my Lady,
Alas! Time does not but we, we are going away,
And soon will be stretched out under the blade
Time is going away, time is going away my Lady,

Let it be to you a sure example
That your beauties, even though they are blossomed
In a little bit of time, will be withered
And, like flowers, will perish all suddenly

Time is going away, time is going away my Lady,
Alas! Time does not but us, we are going away
And soon we will be stretched out under the blade
Time is going away, time is going away my Lady,

The original poem finishes with those two verses:
And those loves of which we talk about
When will be dead, no one would hear about them anymore


All poems written by Ronsard

Monique Morelli - Louis Aragon - An October tune

Original Title: "Un air d'Octobre"
Text: Louis Aragon
Year: 1966

A tune like a vast train
A tune which never ends
An October tune, a romance
Softer than the month of may
A tune that always starts again

Your eyes have the horizon sickness
Crazy the one who finds azure blue enough
To whom the sky isn't a prison
One has to love with immoderation
Reason is not enough

Beautiful autumn with velvet hands
It's the song that is never sung
It's the song of our love
It's the song of the tea-roses
Which heart have the color of the day

A tune like a vast train
A tune which never ends
An October tune, a romance
Softer than the month of may
A tune that always starts again

Is there a deep enough sob
To tell the physical deserts
Alike to the circles one makes in the water
Are the words matching the music
Of the long desire in the heart enclosed

A tune, Elsa, of dementia
A tune which never ends
An October tune, a romance
Softer than the month of may is
A tune like a vast train

A tune like a vast train
A tune which never ends
An October tune, a romance
Softer than the month of may
A tune that always starts again

All poems written by Louis Aragon

Monique Morelli - Louis Aragon - Paris 42

Text: Louis Aragon
Year: 1966

A song that speaks of an incurable ill
Sadder than the plaza of Italy at midnight
Alike to Point-du-Jour for the melancholy
More dreams at the fingers than the sandman
Announcing pleasure like a merchant of oblivion

A vulgar and sweet song where the voice lowers
Like a one night love doubting of the following day
A song that takes women by the hand
A song that is being said under the Barbès metro station
And that changes at Etoile and goes down at Jasmin²

It's Paris that shadow theater that I carry
My Paris that couldn't completely be taken away from me
Not more than one could take to lips their shout
What had been required to threw me out of it
Tear me the heart and you will see Paris in it.

It's of that Paris that I made my poems
My words are of the weird colour of those roofs
The throat of the pigeons are cooing and glistening there
I have written more of you Paris than of myself
And more than of growing old suffered to be without you

Who hasn't seen the day rising up on the Seine
Ignores what is that heartbreak
When caught in the act the night fails itself
Defends itself, comes undone the red eyes obscene
And Notre-Dame comes out of the waters like a magnet

The aorta of the Pont Neuf shivers like an orchestra
Where I hear beginning the wine of my twenties
There blows here a wind that comes from the times of yesteryear
To die in the hair of the equestrian statue
The city like an heart opens itself double-doors.

The wind will whisper my verses to the waste grounds
It will brush against the benches where no one sat
We will hear it cry on the quays of Passy
And the bridges repeating the promise of the rings
will go away engaged to the following rhymes

Paris wakes up and I to find those myths back
That were burning our blood in our obscurity
I will put in my hands my irritated face
Let the song be reborn that the birds imitate
And which answers Paris when one says liberty

² Parisian metro stations

Jacques Marchais' version:

All poems written by Louis Aragon

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 !

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

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.