Al Cant de l’Aigua
Before the morning Angelus rang, the rooster had woken up the pot early,
And already on the square of the small town of La Bastide de Sérou, the bread smelled good,
The Arize rolled its limpid waters near the old solitary mill of Molo Porto,
But the miller will not appear there again, he died this winter in his castle.
He left in his century-old home all the work of his life without flashing,
A veil of mist hid the sun for a few moments, as a sign of mourning,
Suddenly an effluent of love exhales from the valley to revive with legitimate pride,
This rustic heirloom all wrapped in soft green foliage where the bullfinch whistles.
The light slips through the branches again, everything seems to come back to life,
The river waters the old mill wheel, the spirea perfumes the water vapors,
The zephyr steals the perfumes which melt in the pure and fresh air of the morning without frost,
Birds in search of pasture look everywhere for the wheat that has galloped away.
The old tiles cover the top of the roof padded with warm moss,
Red lichens color the facade where garlands of ivy run along the walls,
Paradise of lizards and sparrows, it’s almost a party setting, an ode,
In these century-old walls snatching from this valley the bread of a hard daily life.
In the distance, continuing its immutable path, the sun warms the valley again,
Leaving behind its scent of gold flooding the horizon, witness to brilliant tomorrows,
Despite its wounds, the mill will be reborn listening to its big enchanted wheel murmur,
With the Séronnais sky as a backdrop and the grains of gold of memories scattered in the winds.
Guy says l’Arié…..Joie