Les jardins ouvriers (Les illusions) - Serge Lama

Les jardins ouvriers

S’changeaient branche branche

Des oiseaux le dimanche,

Les maisons se parlaient.

a sentait le bb,

Les drages, les baptmes,

L’amour, les chrysanthmes,

Le propre et les abbs.

Des illusions, ils en avaient

Plein leurs armoires, plein leurs greniers

Qu’ils transmettaient par testament

leurs enfants.

a s’envolait comme un ballon,

C’tait sucr comme un bonbon,

C’tait pas vrai, mais c’tait bon,

Les illusions.

Les jardins ouvriers

C’tait de la verdure,

Un zeste de nature

O le soleil brillait.

Elle qui reprisait,

Lui, qui fumait sa pipe,

a faisait des quipes

Le coeur qui se taisait

Mais, les illusions,

Ils les dansaient sous les lampions,

Sur les pavs, dans la mitraille

Des trilles des accordons,

Les mois, les premiers frissons,

Les fleurs mortes et les papillons,

Ficels dans les botes en carton

Vos illusions.

Les jardins ouvriers

S’changeaient branche branche,

Des oiseaux le dimanche,

Mais… les maisons parlaient

Quand tu aimais les jeux

De Rimbaud, de Verlaine,

Par derrire les persiennes,

On te montrait des yeux.

Les illusions, c’tait au fond

Un parfum qui sentait pas bon

Comme ces fleurs qui poussent

Au milieu des chardons.

Les rumeurs battaient aux balcons

Comme le vent et les chansons,

a rend heureux, mais a rend con:

Les illusions.

Allotment gardens

Changed branch branch

Birds on Sunday,

The houses talked to each other.

a felt the bb,

Sweets, baptisms,

Love, chrysanthemums,

The proper and the abbs.

Illusions they had

Full their cupboards, full their attics

Which they transmitted by will

their children.

a flew away like a balloon,

It was sweet as candy,

It wasn't true, but it was good,

The illusions.

Allotment gardens

It was green,

A touch of nature

Where the sun shone.

She who took over,

He, who smoked his pipe,

made teams

The silent heart

But, the illusions,

They danced them under the lanterns,

On the pavements, in the grapeshot

accordion trills,

The months, the first shivers,

Dead flowers and butterflies,

Strings in cardboard boxes

Your illusions.

Allotment gardens

Changed branch branch,

Birds on Sunday,

But… the houses were talking

When you loved games

Of Rimbaud, of Verlaine,

Behind the shutters,

You were shown eyes.

The illusions were deep down

A perfume that smelled bad

Like these flowers that grow

Among the thistles.

Rumors beat on the balconies

Like the wind and the songs,

a makes you happy, but a makes you stupid:

The illusions.