With its short days, its long nights and its atmosphere by the fireplace,
December announces the winter when the windows show their festive clothes,
Spark in the soft light of the sun, with the Snow Queen at the head,
Thread his golden dice to embroider the branches of joyful crystal lace.
At the edge of the river or the torrent the crystalline bells hang from the branches,
The water splashes, then crystallizes by creating beautiful frozen sleeves,
But in the garden it is the round of the pumpkins, the circles, the oblong ones in planks,
In a festival of colors, yellow, red, for these cucurbits with sweet flesh
The bare trees resemble skeletons scratching the fuzzy sky,
While the cold chews our cheeks and licks the icy hands
In the undergrowth, the moors or the herbus, between dog and wolf,
The Mordorea seeks her soul of woodcock for the crush to mate.
The biting light shears the outlines of the landscapes,
But in the woods on a background of calm, quiet, without waste,
The blue tits and coal begin their early ball,
Strolling through the branches to flush out their prey under the barks.
La Fontaine nicknamed him Pierrot, it is for him the hour to approach the man,
This little bird, with its robe of corks, comes and fetches the shelter and shelter,
Brawler and ready to go for some bread crumbs, this piaf revolver
He will even come to gather his pittance in your hand; he is indeed the gentleman sparrow.
As for the little masked bandit with his black silk headband over his eyes,
A strong, long-tailed beak composing its silhouette on the wing struck with a white escutcheon,
It is perched at the top of a branch that the gray shrike is watching its prey,
That it will skewer to a shrub spine to store it or cut it up with blood.
It is often to the brunette that the great duke launches his zombi martial "hou-oh"
Unforgettable vision of his silhouette under the moon while listening to his disturbing cry,
But what pleasure to look at the goldsmith of the pines, the cross-bill in his livery,
Decorate the spruce seeds with its crescent crossed mandibles.
In this period when the sun is retreating on the shivering mountain lake,
Abandoning in its wake a soft light which pours out in pink-tea reflections,
The ibex close to the Pyrenean peaks plays the beautiful near its shelf,
This proud horned bearded seducer seduces his biquette head backwards rejected.
For Goupil winter is also the season of loves, the males signaling to the gallant
Their passage by smearing their fragrant sweet words on the trunks and bushes,
When it snows its yellowish traces are visible and so fragrant
What can we say, he has passed through here, he will pass by that the rascal.
Now bare, some oaks unveil the plant of spirits without veils,
Gathered at the time of the Gauls with a golden serp by a druid dressed in white,
The mistletoe chased the evil spirits to announce "Au mistle New Year" the New Year,
Under the lament of the wolf resonating at the bottom of the wood, like an incantation to the stars.
Among the austere and stripped silhouettes of the foliage trees,
The holly is distinctly distinguished by its thorny and shining leaves,
Adorned with its bright red fruits it adorns the bouquets of florists,
In houssières, hungry blackbirds consume it without exhilarating moderation.
When winter and its procession of frost put nature in hibernation,
The fir tree, thanks to its always green needles, becomes the tree of gluttony,
In the Middle Ages between pagan customs and Christian festivals it is adorned with sweets,
Its top was adorned with a star guiding the kings to adoration.
"Jesus was born in a stable," according to biblical tradition,
Over the centuries this literary register of metaphorical theology,
Will be illustrated by the construction of the Christmas crib in the churches,
The newborn rests next to the donkey and the ox, between Mary and Joseph in their shirts.
True hymn to the Provencal tradition and to the transhumance of Crau
The «Feast of the Shepherds» of Istres returns to the pastoral tradition without hiccups
With its costumed parade accompanied by salt-scented sheep
While on the Cannebière one honors the true santon of clay in traditional costume
In this month where we are preparing for the surreal end of year festivities,
St Nicolas distributes cakes and chocolates to the beard of Father Fouettard,
When St. Lucie illuminates the streets of the villages while waiting for Santa Claus,
Knowing that each St Sylvestre sounded makes us a year older without delay.