Witnesses of Our Childhood
The best of generations, slowly, is dying,
Those who without studying for a long time, gave everything for their children,
Those who without great resources helped them with little money,
They have known times of war, were content with little with a smile.
They had sorrows and sufferings but did not say it,
Sometimes, they worked like beasts, but did not complain,
It was said of them that they were more vulnerable than anyone,
In silence they die, as it was for their ordinary life.
They never dared to think of raising the country and yet!
They sought simple happiness to share the life of their grandchildren,
Society lets them leave this world, alone and still abandoned,
They leave without saying goodbye, they go without disturbing.
When the chime sounded the end of their pilgrimage,
Their bodies, tired by the wear of time, surrendered to the Lord of the wise,
Their gaze faded as they silently closed the shutters of their faces,
Their book of Life closed on the chapters engraved before the great passage.
The angels came to get them with their team,
Their soul flew away to Paradise,
Leaving us the keys to their love and their courage,
Of their great kindness and their eternal youth, too.
In their memory, here is a beautiful tribute from Jacques Brel for our Old People:
The old no longer speak or only sometimes out of the corner of their eyes
Even rich they are poor, they have no more illusions and have only one heart for two
At home it smells of thyme, cleanliness, lavender and the words of yesteryear
Whether we live in Paris, we all live in the provinces when we live too long
Is it from having laughed too much that their voice cracks when they speak of yesterday
And from having cried too much that tears still pearl on their eyelids
And if they tremble a little is it from seeing the silver clock age
That purrs in the living room, that says yes that says no, that says: I'm waiting for you
The old no longer dream, their books fall asleep, their pianos are closed
The little cat is dead, the Sunday muscat no longer makes them sing
The old no longer move their gestures have too many wrinkles their world is too small
From the bed to the window, then from the bed to armchair and then from bed to bed
And if they still go out arm in arm all dressed stiffly
It's to follow in the sun the funeral of an older one, the funeral of an uglier one
And for the time of a sob, forget for a whole hour the silver clock
Which purrs in the living room, which says yes who says no, and then which waits for them
The old don't die, they fall asleep one day and sleep too long
They hold hands, they are afraid of losing each other and yet lose each other
And the other stays there, the best or the worst, the gentle or the severe
It doesn't matter, the one of the two who stays ends up in hell
You may see it, you will sometimes see it in rain and in sorrow
Cross the present while already apologizing for not being further away
And flee before you one last time the silver clock
Which purrs in the living room, which says yes who says no, which tells them: I'm waiting for you
Who purrs in the living room, who says yes who says no and then who waits for us
It has become a monument of French song since 1962 with this
masterful interpretation by Daniel Guichard, "Mon vieux", on
words by Michelle Senlis and, as many people don't know, composed by
Jean Ferrat. So hold back your tears for this shared tenderness !
As for Didier Barbolivien, he made "The Violins of the Past" vibrate:
Mom, over there you're going to dance
Mom, on the violins of your past
Here, here the slate is wiped clean
Here, the present moment quickly forgotten
For their "Great Journey" this moving "Jerusalema" I dedicate to you,
A magnificent interpretation of a weeping saxophone,
Allowing to share with you a moment of meditation,
For all those whose Sun has given way to their Star in the night.
I don't belong here
My kingdom is not here
Protect me
Walk with me
Guy Pujol says l’ARIÉ…..JOIE