Jean Ferrat - Aragon - One day, one day

Original Title: "Un jour, un jour"
Text: Louis Aragon
Year: 1967
Song about the execution of Federico García Lorca during the Spanish civil war.

Everything big and magnificent man has been,
His protest, his songs and his heroes,
Above that body and against his executioners,
In Granada, today, appears suddenly in front of the crime.

And that absent mouth and Lorca who went quiet
Filling suddenly the universe up with silence
Against the violent ones violence turns
God the roar that makes a murdered poet

One day, yet, one day will come orange colored
One day of palm, one day of foliages at the forehead
One day of bare shoulder where people will love one another
One day like a bird on the highest branch

Ah I despaired of my wild brothers
I saw, I saw the future on its knees
The triumphant Beast and the stone over us
And the fire of the soldiers brought upon our shores

What? Always it would be, through atrocious trade,
a neverending sharing that they make of the earth
Among those assassins feared by the panthers
And who made a dagger tremble when their hand touched it

One day, yet, one day will come orange colored
One day of palm, one day of foliages at the forehead
One day of bare shoulder where people will love one another
One day like a bird on the highest branch

What? It would always be the war, the quarrel,
Manners of Kings, and prostrated foreheads
And the woman's child uselessly born
Always the shredded weath of the grasshoppers

What? The penal colonies always and the flesh under the wheel
The slaughter always, justified by idols.
To the corpses thrown that coat of words.
The gag for the mouth and for the hand the nail.

One day, yet, one day will come orange colored
One day of palm, one day of foliages at the forehead
One day of bare shoulder where people will love one another
One day like a bird on the highest branch

All poems written by Louis Aragon

Jacques Bertin - Mother sing to me

Original Title: "Mère, chantez-moi"
Year: 1980

Mother sing to me the song
of childhood and hope
That you were singing so well, song
At our home, over there, in the other world
Mother sing to me the song
Forgotten page of another age
The fairies there to the virgin were speaking
Fingers running on a work

Mother sing to me the song
of childhood and hope
We were bathing in a mirror
Where small boats with painted sails
Loaded with sprays and children
Landed on blue beaches
Mother sing to me the song
Dead, my child, is the song

I want to sleep, mother sing
My child, my memory is dead
And your voice that is so beautiful
Don't think about it no more, it's broken
My eyes are dry and the streams dried up
And my unfaithful arms bruised
And love is withered
And the songs who cares about them

Mother, my eyes do not see you anymore
I wear off in this way like a wave
Where are you mother, sing!
I wear off in this way, like a wave
I never sleep like I used to
I wear off in this way, like a wave
I never hear the song
and it is wearing off as well, the song

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

Jacques Bertin - Morning

Original Title: "Matin"
Year: 1972

Morning where belated young girls go
Raised nets, drying nets of lover girls
Morning, birth in secret the strong brass under the shapes and up to the fruit the evening of the day bleeding.
Morning, the cigarette white and thin between the fingers. The life given back, given back.
Morning, on the back of the hand the tangerine and all the things that I believe in.
Morning, the resurgence of underground words, a serene pain and the buying back of all the words by the stone.

Jacques Bertin - The Chilean Embassy

Original Title: "L'ambassade du Chili"

Year: 1975

The embassy. It is a mouth closed henceforth for a long time
French gendarmes have been placed there to insure the respect of the laws of hospitality
Always the same ones to make the heart of people move on.
It'll be slightly harder to live with
the memory of that crime at the corner of the street
and all that blood
There has been a crime, a nation has been killed, passer-bys are moved along.
I move on then, life pushes me without consideration
I go to get myself built with the mortar of distances, renunciations
A house where I place everyone at one's place, my child
my friends and hundred thousand generations of poor people.
On the roof I'll plant that small shrub made of big words
Dignity or Justice - All this is a bit theatrical
Careful designer, I build a house for ten thousand years
Ten thousand yeards of struggle against ten thousand years of lies
I am patient, I fight sometimes back to the wall with the crazy happiness that I protect under my jacket
Like a message or a bomb destined for some illegal workers
Because of that happiness, I say that I am invincible
Because of the thread that in the centuries tightens, I never weaken
Because of that happiness, I am everywhere at home and I am never
unreasonable. All those I despise are naked. I weight them up, I stare at them
Fear the gaze that writes your real name on your faces
Like a biting slap or like a gash, the insolence
is at youth of the world, the passion
I am everywhere in my home.

I do not forget anything, ever.
I never weaken
I write, I write on papers for the saboteurs
Run in the night along the railways, I write about happiness
And about joy. I write for Chili, for the time that goes
that gives its strength only to those who have a world to win
I write because of the fire in my head and of death that has to be denied.
I write because of so much love and so much pain

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 - A big lilac shawl

Original Title: "Un grand châle lilas"
Year: 1967

Firstly a big lilac shawl
coming from the back of my attic
for your frozen shoulders
And then a big acorn necklace
gathered along the paths
After the end of their season
After the end of our paths

And then a big wooden comb
At the time when the wind comes back to you
Your locks are crippled
A single ring at your hand
for which I'd have plunged
at the bottom of the well of an old convent
and you'll give me your hand

And old understanding horse
A stable of my outline
And in front of me you climbed
A path forgotten by men
A way along the orchards
A slightly wrinkled pippin
to bite along the paths

A small boat on a canal
A child along the towpath
In an old-fashionned blouse
And then the straw of gross of the pond
And then the reflections of the pond
At the time when the cold is coming back in
And when we are going to swim

We'll go through the cold
of a past season
Where everything will be rebirth
dressed in old clothes
of old moments of a past
Like the fire is revived from the embers
Like the frostdrop flower