All language subtitles for Les Amours Jaunes (1958, Jean Rollin)

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