Ma soupe est prèteEt c’est mon cailloux glacé dans l’espace
Il pleut, il pleut encoreOn a été lâché par l’auroreQu’a bien pu gâcher sa trombineQu’a du oublier sa bonne mineElle c’est perdu comme mille foisAu trottoir des rabat-joiesAu comptoir sécuritaireAu banquet de la misèreEt la grise peut toujours tomberFaire mine d’asphyxier même sa voixLa vie va au bout de ses doigtsEt elle continuera a chanterCette vielle chanson, le refrain d’orLe vent qui soufflait dans les blésLe chant qui gonflait l’oreiller
Souvenir, souvenir, que me veux-tu ?
Time and space whisper in my ears, they tell me " the night when you and your friend tried to remember those lines is far, already...".
But for my heart, such words are meaningless, they have no weight, no value ; for my heart is stubborn and the sweet sound of our scottish sensation will never abandon it, rooted like a gentle, melllow memory.
The Lady of Lowlands
I remenber waking up in the fresh morning this day like those 12 perfect days before, taking my breakfest with you and then making my goodby to Elodie.
Jean noel leaded me to the train station and in the path we cross one of his pupils.
Here I took the train, making my goodby to Edinburgh, going to the airport.
And the airplane gone up in an air of sadness ...
Close to the window, as we take hightness, I could see that beautifull land, all those landscape, all those friends, all those strangers I was leaving.
And I could see from here, on this burned parchment wich is scotland, a strange and untranslable sign drawen , and sure I would see it again.
In the bus Luton-London, I ate those delicious chocolate cake Elodie gave me this morning, puting crumbles everywhere, but that was so good in reality that it took my sadness away.
I get down of the bus on a place I thaught was not far from legendary Abbey Road.
I taught....
Walking half an hour before beeing at the famous crosswalk I was happy to be there. And I sit down on a banch to take my rest (and my breakfeast : the sandich, and the apple) watching "all those lonely people" crossing one, two, three ...many times this famous street like John, Paul,georges and Ringo once done.
Not far from here was another famous street...
Was it this feeling of having forgoten so many things in scottland which leaded me to the 221b Baker street... but neither Holmes or Watson could help me that time.
And as the evening got down slowly on the city I had to get at the train station, comming back to Paris, going away, always farest from Dunfermline... but going to the south !.
Paris, as usual, the underground, the publicity, here the last two weeks took a strange dreamy aspect... Paris was sad like the waking from a dream.
One night and then another train to the south, reading Elodie’s book, Salman Rushdie’s "Haroun and the sea of stories".
And speacking with this sewing pretty girl from the north ... who get down at Gourdon without letting me nothing but memory, good memory and perfume.
That’s like my sweet time of scotish wander, taught I, it was short but sweet and when it ended it let just good memory and perfume.
And it made me happy like it make me happy now remembering the feeling of the little cold rain on my hairs when I walked next to you.
Gilles
Silencieux, tout petit, sans qu’on ne l’aperçoiveLe temps étrange est la qui tissa entre nousComme une vielle carte ou deux oiseaux voyagentAu fil des milles choses qui font qu’ils passent hélasSilencieux, tout petits sans qu’ils ne s’aperçoivent.
I know a Lady in LowlandsSweet is her heart and her lips shineWhen I see her sometimes she smileAnd then she ask me tenderlyHave you ever need anything ?I don’t need anything says IBut that’s not the truthCause if I could I would stole herAll the sadness of her eyesTake it with me the wild roverAnd nobody would find me then.
