Original subtitles

THESE JAUNDICED LOVES impression ofTristan Corbière

on the coast of Armor, an old monastery

where the winds imagined themselves in a windmill

and the local donkeys came to break their molars

on a wall so full of holes you´d never be able to find the entrance

alone, but still lofty and upright

chipped like the teeth of an old woman

the roof shot off with force

stood the tower standing pointlessly

still proud of its legendary past

serving only as a smugglers´ den

for nightly drifters, secret lovers

stray dogs, old rats, frauds and custom officials

now the host of the little tower

is a reclusive poet, with shot in his wing

Ianded there among old owls observing him from up high

he didn´t bother them in their holes

he, the only paying owl, with a rental agreement

of 25 écus a year, including the hanging of a door

he was just a loafer, withered and pale

an amateur hermit, hunted by the wind

he had spent too long in unhealthy countries

condemned by bailiffs and doctors he´s drunkenly found his niche there

to die alone or live by default

feigning to be some sort of artist, some sort of philosopher

grumbling at the sun and the prices in isolation from the people

he still owned a hammock, a viol

a dog that answered to the name of Faithful

just as faithful and soft and sad as himself

was his other companion named Boredom

dying in his sleep he was absorbed by the dream

his dream was the tide washing over the beach

and the tide withdrawing

sometimes he sat down aimlessly in order to wait

wait for what?

for the tide to rise? for low tide?

or for the Absent One? who knows?

does he even know himself?

did he in his windy house forget how fast the dead go?

he, who after an entire life returns in a daze

is he looking for his old sorrows here?

certainly, She is not far away, the one you yearn for

deer of St. Huberts, with a brow without flames

don´t pretend you´re broken-hearted

feign death if you can as She has mourned for you

He can do that, he is a poet, right?

immortal like all poets, and in his poor, confused head

he could still feel the verses ghosting about

as he totally didn´t know how to live he survived

and as he didn´t know how to die

he wrote

it´s a being that for a hundred moons, my Beloved

has whiled in your poetical soul

I rhyme, therefore I exist

don´t worry, rhyming isn´t necessary

an oyster shell, broken off the shoal

to you I read my farewell to life

to you that mourned for me till I reached the point I stayed with you

now it is over I am back, as a used-up shade

I almost said ´as a man of flesh and blood´

one thing is certain:

it is me I exist, be it just as a deletion

I would sell my skin to Satan

if he were to tempt me with a spirit

You, I see you everywhere

but as a deathly pale seer

I worship you

how sad: worshipping someone you love

appear with a dagger in your heart

you know, just like in lnès de la Sierra

I hear knocking someone´s there

but unfortunately

it´s a rat

I daydream, and always about You

everywhere the memory ofYou surfaces, as a tormentor

my loneliness: You

my golden-eyed owls: You

my wild weathercock: You

What else?

if I open the shutters in the storm I hear Your voice, Your song

in lashing gusts of wind resounds Your name

it is foolish, it is foolish but I hear You

my heart, wide open like my shutters

beats like crazy on the most bizarre breathing excursion

Iook, a shadow of your profile is briefly visible on the bare wall

but l´ve turned away hope or memory

´sister Anna, do you see anyone coming? ´

nothing

I see, I see in my cold room my bed covered with soft silk

with the sleeping dog on it poor creature

and I laugh, because it hurts a little

I will lure you with my viol and lyre

my foolish heart is fooling itself

come cry if my verses make you smile, come smile if they make you cry

it´ll be fun we´ll pretend to be pitiful

uncomplicated happiness

it´s raining in my house and on the fire of my heart

come my candle has gone out

and I have no fire left

his lamp went out

he opened the window the sun came up

he looked at his letter, smiled and tore it up

in the mist the white shreds

Iooked like gulls flying

a hundred and twenty sea rovers, gallows-birds

have signed up on the Mary-Gratis

it´s time, fellows, we´re setting off

hoist the main jib that has to bring in the money

tighten the sails money makes them cuckolds

the main jib brings in the money

heigh-ho I won´t miss the gendarmes

heigh-ho, no, not that one let´s set off, my brunette

go on, Mary-Gratis, English brig

a roguish breeze eases the sails of dawn like a true sailor

the echo of the cabaret still resounds

they answer in unison from the topsail like hummingbirds up in a coconut tree

so long, my beauty, we´ll come back soon

for four nights they enjoyed themselves under the bar and on top of the hostess

try to remain faithful we´ll be good as well

the Mary-Gratis stands out to sea and dissolves in the scud

the high waves on open sea suddenly wake up

and sluggishly nestle against the rocks

travel on, everything´s been paid for

hoist the main jib

they´re already far out at sea

and in their wake the swell carries their song to the beach

muttering tonelessly on its way back

everything´s been paid for, my beauty

and we won´t return