WHEN THE MUSIC BECOMES POETRY: Francis Cabrel, October
OCTOBER
The branches will creak in the wind, the mist will come in its white dress. Everywhere the Leaves will lie on the stones. October will grasp its revenge. The sun will barely show up. Our bodies will hide under bits of wool. Burried in your shawls in the evening you will walk past October asleep near the fountains. Surely some empty vases will be seen abandonned on tin tables and some clouds caught in the aerials. I will offer you flowers and colorful tableclothes to escape October’s grasp. We will climb high on the hills and behold all what’s lit up by October. My hands on your hair, sharing the same scarves in front of the surrendering world. Surely on some benches some old men will sit and remember and the clouds caught in the aerials. I will offer you flowers and colorful tableclothes to escape October’s grasp. And surely some drawings will appear on the misted windows. You will play outside like the children from the north, maybe October will linger. You will play outside like the children from the north, maybe October will linger.
