Old folk (Les vieux)

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Old folk

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Old folk no longer talk or else at times hardly from the tip of their eyes
Even if they are rich they are poor, they have no more illusions and but one heart for two
Their homes smell of thyme, neatness, lavender and vintage turns of phrase
Even if we live in Paris we all live in the boondocks when we live too long
Is it from having laughed too much that their voices crack when they talk of the past
And from too much weeping that tears still form beads on their eyelids?
And if they quaver a bit, is it from seeing growing old the silver clock
That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, saying: I’m waiting for you?
Old folk no longer dream; their books are left to slumber; their pianos are closed shut
The little cat is dead; the Sunday muscatel no longer makes them sing
Old folk no longer move, their gestures are too wrinkled, their world is far too small
From the bed to the window then from the bed to the chair and then from the bed to the bed
And if they still go out arm in arm, all clad in stiffness
It’s to attend in the sun the burial of an older man, the burial of an uglier woman
And, in the crack of a sob, forget for a whole hour the silver clock
That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no and then waiting for them
Old folk do not die; they fall asleep one day and sleep too long
They hold hands, afraid to lose each other and yet lose the other one does
And the other remains there, the better or the worse, the gentle or the stern
It doesn’t matter. The one of the two left behind finds herself in hell
You will see her perhaps, you will see him sometimes, in the rain and in grief
Going through the present already apologising for not being further along
And shunning in front of you one last time the silver clock
That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, telling them: I’m waiting
That drones in the sitting room, saying yes, saying no, and then waiting for us
Postat de mbg la Marţi, 25/01/2011 - 13:17
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Les vieux

Les vieux ne parlent plus ou alors seulement parfois du bout des yeux
Même riches ils sont pauvres, ils n’ont plus d’illusions et n’ont qu’un cœur pour deux
Chez eux ça sent le thym, le propre, la lavande et le verbe d’antan
Que l’on vive à Paris on vit tous en province quand on vit trop longtemps
Est-ce d’avoir trop ri que leur voix se lézarde quand ils parlent d’hier
Et d’avoir trop pleuré que des larmes encore leur perlent aux paupières ?
Et s’ils tremblent un peu est-ce de voir vieillir la pendule d’argent
Qui ronronne au salon, qui dit oui qui dit non, qui dit : je vous attends ?

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Te rugăm să ajuți la traducerea cântecului „Les vieux”
snorio     Februarie 16th, 2011