Ode for Aude
It is born up there, in the hollow of a silent cirque where the snows still watch,
In the rugged embrace of the Pays de Sault, sheltered by twisted beeches and golden broom,
There, the Aude is but a thread, a murmur of spring beneath the hooves of sheep,
Between chaos and cascades, leaping over granite pebbles, it grows,
Running down the gorges like a hurried poem, caressing the sleeping mills,
Then come the lands of wine and stone, the arid Corbières, with their barren soil,
The valleys that echo with the knight's step and the convict's song.
Carcassonne awaits me, a motionless fortress, where my father was born,
There, the Aude slows, it meanders across the plain, offering itself to the willows, the poplars,
To those vines with dark tendrils that drink the wind like aged wine,
And then comes the open sea, it brushes against the ponds, the reeds, the salt marshes,
Where the flamingos await the dawn like rosy guardians,
It weds the Great Blue, without a sound, for its end it dares,
Just in a salty embrace, a final offering,
It is there that it loses itself, in the breath of the vast dunes,
It is no longer a river, it is liquid memory, the vein of Occitania,
Bearing stories and the silences of a father to whom I give life again.
Al Cant de l’Aïga
Ò tu, ribiera d’Aude, sentinèla d’Occitània,
Parlas als ròcs, a las flors, a la vinha de gràcia,
E nosautres, viatjaires sus ta riba en silenci,
Te daissam nòstre còr per que ton cant contunhe sens fin.
O you, Aude River, guardian of Occitania,
You speak to the rocks, to the flowers, to the blessed vine,
And we, simple passersby, moved on your banks,
Leave you our hearts so that your song may continue.
Along the Aude River
In the arms of Capcir, the Aude gently awakens.
From the pearly waters of Lake Aude springs its sweet secret of the heart,
It glides murmuring down the flank of Matemale, its torrential little sister,
It caresses the moss, and goes on its way, free, proud, and spirited.
Then, the wall of the wild defile rises, the Pierre Lys stands, roaring,
An epic passage, traversed by the courage of an abbot with a hardworking soul,
The priest spoke to the stone, the rock opened for him, guided by the Lord,
The engraved words remain, like an ancient breath etched high above.
Stop, traveler, the light descended,
The mountain shepherd broke the prohibition.
Further down, the Aude finally reveals itself at Quillan, the hat capital,
But its heart beats stronger in the Quercorb region where Puivert stands with its castle,
There where troubadours, with their gentle melodies, sang of courtly love,
The lute, the cittern, and the psaltery sometimes resonate in the museum of passions.
Despite its turbulent waters, the Aude lent its strength to men lying in ambush,
The log drivers of old guided the trunks of the Donezan region, over its cascading waters,
From the Sault plateau, the timbers floated along the stream, to the port of Quillan,
Where the watermasters, with a keen eye, counted the timbers, ever vigilant.
In the Hautes Corbières, rises Bugarach, the magical mountain,
This mysterious peak with its inverted shape has an esoteric reputation,
Remember, traveler, 2012 when that strange solstice,
Gave rise to this place age-old fears and legends far removed from angels.
It is at Couiza, in the heart of the valley, that the Aude and the Sals rivers unite their clarity,
The salt water flows down towards the Château de Joyeuse, built of gleaming stone,
Since 1550, its proud towers have risen, constructed of limestone with singing hues,
Today, royal feasts are served there, in a Hotel Restaurant of refined charm.
Brienne-le-Château, perched five hundred meters above, stands watch in pious silence.
Its Lords of Hautpoul built its past stone by stone.
It was Abbé Saunière who, in 1901, gave the myth its golden flight.
A treasure, they say, Villa Béthania and Tour Magdala hold the key to its secrets.
The Aude River then meanders through the valley of Alet-les-Bains, beneath the gaze of Roman bridges.
The Devil's Bridge, with its proud and slender arches, has defied ancient times since 1627.
There, as early as the year 800, Benedictine monks erected walls against the evil days.
They asserted their faith, under the king's law, against Moors and Saracens.
But in 813, by Louis the Pious, the Abbey truly came into being.
In 1095, Saint Polycarp united it, and peace was established with the blessed Trencavel family.
But on January 6, 1577, Alet experienced a tragedy as flames swept through the city.
The Huguenots destroyed the cathedral, ruining the very soul of its inhabitants.
In the foothills of the mountains, the Razès valley offers its Malepère vintage,
In Limoux, when winter arrives, the blanquette sparkles in the eyes of the old men,
Masked revelers dance to the sounds of clear, whistling fifes,
And one nibbles on pébrados, twisted biscuits, in this Occitan Carnival.
Fanjeaux, perched on its promontory of Seignadou, overlooks the valleys,
The Lauragais plain stretches out at the foot of the Pyrenees,
And one can still hear in the breath of the hills,
The verses of Peire Vidal, vibrating like mountain peaks.
My heart fills with happiness and joy
Because of the tender, gentle season
And because of the Château de Fanjeaux
Which seems to me like paradise
In the land of Cockaigne
Between the Black Mountain and the gray hills,
The Lauragais slept in the shadow of its churches,
Cradle of the Cathars, fervent, pure, and betrayed,
When came the crusaders, fire, steel, and oblivion.
Simon, son of Montfort, climbed upon its ruins,
And the pyres spoke the language of plunder,
But in this bruised soil, ravaged by iron,
Life returned one day, painting the land blue.
For the Isatis plant, with its discreet miracle,
Offered its azure heart to the Lauragais wind,
Its leaves, under the hands of an industrious people,
Become "cocagnes" with capricious reflections.
Fortune burst forth in an unparalleled blue,
And this place was named: "The Land of Cockaigne,"
Where gold is not metal, but vegetable pigment,
A Renaissance song on the edge of ancient prisons.
But another treasure, steaming in its warmth,
Would be born in silence and swell every heart,
The divine cassoulet, humble as a miracle,
In its brown casserole dish at the back of the old stage.
White beans, duck, sausages and bacon,
Hams, golden crust, sweetness and heavy shivers,
Each ingredient prays, each bubble is a prayer,
It is the slow gospel of a warrior's soup.
The cassoulet is the God of Occitan cuisine,
The Father is the cassoulet of Castelnaudary,
The Son is the one of Carcassonne,
and the Holy Spirit is the one of Toulouse.
And Prosper Montagné, the wise cook,
Spoken like a prophet by his hearth,
"The cassoulet, my brothers, is God on our plate,
The Father is in Castel, the Son in Carcassonne,
And the Spirit breathes in Toulouse, in a violet robe."
Fifteen leagues from the gates of Carcassonne, Salsigne, a dark treasure, reveals its riches,
One hundred and twenty tons of pure gold, flowed in clear veins, made the wicked woman sing,
But 2004 sealed the dark cavern, leaving thirty tons to slumber beneath the broom,
While eager eyes watch, coveted by the voracious eye, ready to reproduce.
In the plain, here is Riquet! Pierre-Paul, noble madman,
Dreaming of a canal stealing the waters of the Montagne des Noirins,
To carry them towards Naurouze, linking the immensity,
In 1681 the boats passed from the Ocean to the great azure sea.
At Montferrand, near the canal bearing the image of the Sun King,
On a lofty obelisk, solar symbol of the wonders of Egypt,
His sons had engraved, “To Riquet, son of the water, Baron of Bonrepos,
Author of the King Canal, which bound two streams.”
Beneath the great plane trees of the old canal, the great wall can be seen approaching,
In the distance, the City rises in glory, a crenellated crown in the gold of Languedoc,
Its shadow defied the sword of Charlemagne, and Lady Carcas still resounds on the rock,
From the Aude Gate to the Narbonne Gate, two thousand years have murmured wars and squabbles.
There, my father, barely seventeen, carried humble letters,
His heart heavy with grief, in memory of an ancestor swept away by the war,
My grandfather, Eugène, gassed at Les Dames in 1917, saw his song extinguished,
In the fog of the trenches, thinking from the front of his adolescent son.
But here, on the banks of the canal, the sky still blazes,
Every fourteenth of July, the jubilant crowd waits for the City to light up, in memory and in gold,
And for a fire to rise, vaster than time.
Guy Pujol says l’ARIÉ…..JOIE