L'Arié...Joie and the little Sister with the Sachets
One day, André's little sister approached,
With the gentle step of a nun in a silk dress,
And with a voice so sweet it could make you dream:
"Monsieur Pujol, your writing is a joy!
Your verses, your travels, your profound stories
Have the fragrance of bottomless horizons;
I believe, without flattery or pretense,
That the whole world will read you one day.
Your readers, eager for emotion,
Await nothing more from you than a revelation."
Then she opened her enchanted satchel:
"I have four sachets to present to you.
The first polishes your image a little,
The second crowns you with divine glory,
The third gathers a loyal following,
The fourth is pure marvel:
For fifteen hundred crowns, without the slightest worry,
I will carry your books until the end of the night."
"The Arié...Joie then, smiling beneath his hat,
Looked at her without leaving his raven's perch:
"André's little sister, your words are sugar and honey,
But their fragrance seems artificial to me.
Your golden sachets, your fleeting promises,
Fly higher than hot air balloons.
Your brother the Fox, a master of seduction,
Has already recited the same song to me.
I keep my horse, my dusty paths,
My faithful readers and my verses of light,
For glory bought at the price of illusions
Often ends up drowned in disillusionment."
Moral
When your little sister sells you wonders in little bags,
Count the evidence before you buy.
The Arié...Joie has long known this adage:
The flatterer paints gold on apparent emptiness,
The wise Arié...Joie waits for proof and keeps his money.
The Raven grows old, but his gaze remains,
He recognizes from afar the purveyors of happiness,
He listens, smiling, to promises too good to be true,
Then returns to his verses, to his faithful paths.
For glory is a butterfly, fashion a spark,
But a sincere reader is worth a clientele;
And beneath the Ariège sky where the seasons unfold,
The Arié...Joie continues its song peacefully.
Guy Pujol says l’ARIÉ…..JOIE