The Bouches of Rhône
Sea, heat, blue sky, are the words coming to mind when evoking the South,
Here "assent" signs the identity of the Bouches du Rhone in its capital Phocéenne,
In the Middle Ages there were held "courts of love" whereas towards the nineteenth,
The lovers of the language of oc brought him the felibrige in languedocitude.
Marseille, cosmopolitan and colorful, founded by the Greek navigators of Phocaea,
Became an important port center at the bottom of its bay framed by limestones,
Mountains with brilliant whiteness overlooking a still fairy blue sea,
Here the lights of the South have seduced the painters of the seaside fauvism.
The Cannebiere lined with large hotels, luxurious cafes of the old days,
And of elegant shops, reminds one of its origins of the ropes of "cannabis"
The Old Port, alangui in the heart of the city watches over the boats of the old fishermen,
The Chateau d'If still lives at the time of the Count of Monte Christo, in seigneur.
Let us turn our backs to the industrious coast to trade the burning of salt and sun,
Against the invigorating air of the Alpilles, natural castle of the Rhone delta,
With its rocky villages with the fierce and insolent beauty of vermeil,
Worthy of a Carmen, that the mistral likes to make dance in butterfly.
The Alpilles have become the domain of the olive tree, one of its doors, Eyguières,
Whose name comes from its numerous water points emerging from the overheated massif,
Between ravines and sharp peaks to drain wooded forests,
Whose peasant poet Charloum Rieu, bard of the land of Les Baux was so proud.
Frederic Mistral, the Provencal félibré to epic poetry said of him,
In the depths of the Crau, in the farms where the white horses graze,
And the black bulls, the keepers, the bouviers, the maraîchins, all united,
Listen to Sunday Charloum around trays of snails feasting.
In a chaotic and grandiose setting, the fortress village of Les Baux,
Reminds the lords of the Middle Ages, "race of eaglets, never vassal,
Where in its ruins the golden rock contrasts with the blue of the Provencal sky,
On this plateau overlooking the countryside, the princes held a high court.
On Christmas Eve, in St Vincent Church there is a living crib,
Where the ceremony of the "pastrage" takes place with the shepherdesses the shepherds,
Guiding a cart decorated with foliage pulled by a ram, the "floucat"
To give as an offering a newborn lamb to the infant Jesus.
The Mistral, the wildest and most masterful of the band at Aole,
His whistling, his groaning, and his sweeping,
"In Advent, already, wind and fred escosent" we say in Provençal Occitan,
In Advent, rain, wind and bitter cold, in the country of the santoning santons.
While crossing the massif of the Canaille, the cornice plunges in the creeks,
Its cliffs cracked by the sea, where the creeks of white cliffs,
Contrast with the green of the pine trees plunging into a turquoise sea that slice,
From Callelongue to Port-Miou where small plots are used for petanque.
Farther away, bathed in a sparkling light with infinite horizons,
In its blue ponds with oscillating grasses, the Camargue smiles at us,
In its natural reserve paradise of ducks, herons, egrets and gulls,
Surrounded by remarkable pink flamingos fed with small crustaceans fond.
Overlooking a vast lagoon landscape, Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer,
High place of the traditions Camarguaises in this homeland of the Boumians littoraux,
Honoring Marie Jacobé, Marie Salomé and Sara in their sanctuary,
While the razeteurs remove the cockade nestled between the horns of the bull.
L’ARIÉ….JOIE