LA BÈLA DE MAI (1978 - Occitan)
Lyrics: Alain Sauzel (1943 - )
Music: Georges Brassens (1921-2021)
Parlatz-me de tambust, de trucs, de tarabast,
Pas de tranquilitat ni mai d’òrdre e de patz.
N’ai lo vòmit de la bonància.
Per que l’amor mai bèl qu’aguèssi conegut,
Lo recacèri un jorn que d’òmes blaus cascuts
Tustavan sus la populàcia.
Un ser del mes de mai, lo mond de mon quartièr,
Fòrças de l’òrdre, flics, estudiants, obrièrs,
Se clapavan sus la topina.
Ieu, lo morre al balcon, badavi tranquillet.
Ausiguèri subran a ma pòrta un tustet
Qu’aviá la votz de ma vesina.
"Dobrissètz-me, monsen, soi soleta e pauruga.
Mon òme m’a daissada, agafant sa maçuga,
-Caliá ben qu’aquò arribèsse-
Son casco, son bloquièr e son balha-la-mòrt
Per se’n anar, content, far son mestièr de pòrc
De sergent dins los C.R.S."
Grandmercejant lo temps d’aver virat al fuòc,
L’ai embraçada e puèi a començat lo jòc
De l’amor quora vos emmasca.
Paure piòt que cresiás aparar lo govèrn,
Al teu ostal auriás degut far ton devèr.
Quicòm deu conflar jos ton casco.
Los bramaires partits bramar endacòm mai,
A primalba calguèt que ma bèla de mai,
L’uèlh macat d’endeman de fièra,
De raca-còr se’n torne per sonhar son espós
Non sens m’aver promés un novèl rendètz-vos
Per un novèl passa-carrièra.
Esperant aquel jorn, me balhèri de mal
Per presicar al mond las grèvas, lo rambalh
E las fabricas ocupadas,
La batèsta, l’embolh, la cauma de la fam,
Los coctèls-molotòv, la tusta, lo çaganh,
Ailàs jamai non es tornada.
Son cocut aviá pres sul nas tant de pavats
Que de la siá patria aviá plan meritat
La retirada anticipada,
E se l’èra menada cap a’n cèl sempre blau,
Dins un país caluc ont jamai tres calhaus
Faràn pas una barricada.
Baste que ma cançon, per combas e per puègs,
Li anèsse contar que, dempuèi aquela nuèch,
Mon paure còr, confle de penas,
Morís de languison un pauc mai cada jorn
E qu’a pas ges besonh, per plorar son amor,
De granadas lacrimogenas. | THE MAY BEAUTY
Tell me about racket, clashes, uproar,
Not about tranquility, neither about order nor peace,
I'm fed up with quietness,
Because the finest love I ever knew,
I found it one day when helmeted men in blue
Were bashing the populace.
One May evening, the people from my neighborhood,
Forces of order, cops, students, workers
Were hitting on one another's head.
From my balcony, I was quietly looking
I suddenly heard a knock on my door
That had my neighbor's voice.
"Open me up, sir, I'm alone and scared,
My husband left me as he seized his bludgeon,
-This for sure had to happen-
His helmet, his shield and his "death-giver" (gun, I suppose)
To go, happy, to do his dirty job
As a sergeant in the riot squad (1).
Thanking the time/weather to have turned fiery,
I embraced her then the game of love
When it bewitches you, started.
Poor fool who thought you were protecting the government,
You should have done your duty at home.
Something must be swelling under your helmet (2).
Once the bawling crowd gone to bawl elsewhere,
At dawn, with dark-ringed eyes
Like on the day after a fair, my May beauty, reluctantly had
To go back to tend to her spouse
Not without promising me a new date
On a new demonstration.
Waiting/hoping for that day, I made big efforts
To preach everybody strikes, disorder
And occupied factories,
Battle, unrest, hunger strike,
Molotov cocktails, fight, disturbance,
Alas, she never came back.
Her cuckold had gotten so many cobblestones on his face (lit. nose)
That he'd well deserved an early retirement
From his country (lit. fatherland)
And he'd taken her to an ever-blue sky,
In a crazy country where three stones
Will never make a barricade.
May my song, out and about,
Go tell her that since that night,
My poor heart, swollen by grief,
Has been dying from nostalgia a little more with every day,
And that, to mourn her love,
It doesn't need tear grenades |