The Dovecotes of the Southwest
They are there, perched on the golden skin of the hillsides of Occitania, small
temples of blond stone, proud little lords of stone and tile,
still watching over our countryside like guardians of an ancient time.
Their shadows stretch slowly as the evening progresses, and one thinks one can still hear,
in the buzzing of the cicadas, the rustling of wings from an ancient time, peasant and noble.
Beneath the arcaded dovecote, the air circulates like a breath of grace,
Four arches lift it, as if the grateful earth were offering it a dance.
On four proud feet, it dances in the passing wind, it opens to the light of the South, light.
The wind strolls there like a troubadour; beneath it, the hay falls asleep, the dove embraces itself. 
Wise as an old vine, round as an old barrel, solid and without pretension,
The stones of the cylindrical dovecote turn with time, gentle brother of the wine press,
It has the sweetness of simple things, that of warm bread, and of the evening falling on the valley,
It keeps within its walls a scent of ointment, and the echo of the seasons mingles with pure hope.
He has the humility of a job well done, lower, stockier, proud of his refined appearance,
The mule's foot roof, a little low, defies the wrath of the mad sky,
He is not vain, he watches, quite simply and under his chipped tile,
A pair of wings falls asleep, brooding tenderness in the shadow of the soft nest.
This one stands like a Gascon prince, its sculpted pillars carrying it towards the azure sky, ablaze.
The dovecote, on columns, like a bird ready to take flight between sky and vineyard, meditates, silent.
A prince of stone, it has seen wars, plowing, and the harvests of the hardy pass by.
Its columns dance the apotheosis of a South with a thousand songs, which no time would fade.
Oh dovecotes of the South, in the folds of the Tarn, the Gers, the Lauragais, or the Ariège,
Proud jewels of the countryside, your red roofs light up in the evening like a farewell.
Under your arches sleeps a people who hid a little of their soul in arpeggios.
Dovecotes of memory, heaven blesses you with a great beat of radiant wings. 
O towers of the Southwest, guardians of the countryside, your stones taste of wine and oil,
Time falls asleep on the edge of your mountains, but the soul of a country still sleeps beneath your tiles,
"Ailàs, lo temps se’n va, mas loubre demòra," Alas, time departs, but the work remains,
In your cracked walls, the white dove still sings, cooing hour after hour.
The Legend of the Dovecote of Assézat
It was at a time when Toulouse shone like a sapphire jewel, when the rich capitouls
coated their fingers with blue gold, and when the hillsides sang, from Gers to Lauragais,
beneath thewarm breeze of the happiness of men and pigeons.
On a hillock stood a dovecote, a tiny masterpiece of arches and glazed tiles.
It was said to belong to the house of Assézat, whose coffers overflowed with the merchants' pastels.
But in the shadows of the fields, another treasure watched: Janòu, a peasant's son,
master of pigeons.His hands felt straw, chalk, grain, and his gaze knew how to speak to wings.
Now, the lord's daughter, Clarmonde d'Assézat, had a heart more ardent than the July rooftops.
Every evening, fleeing the starched salons, she went to the dovecote,
her dress lifted on the grass, to listen to the birds cooing at dusk.
Janòu, up there, was repairing a cracked stone.
Their eyes met, for a mere moment, but all of Gascony shuddered.
She laughed: "What's going on, Master Janou?" "Are you well, Master Janou?"
And he, blushing: "Not so much as you, domaisèla..." Not as much as you, young lady.
The days passed, the pigeons became accomplices. Beneath their wings, scented notes,
strands of blue linen, discreet words of love were exchanged.
The dovecote vibrated with their murmurs, a stone temple turned chapel of hearts.
But one stormy evening, Father Assézat, furious, surprised the two lovers under the tiled roof.
Janòu was chased to the plain, and Clarmonde was locked in her ivory tower.
Yet it is said that, from then on, a pair of white pigeons never left the dovecote.
Always a bold male and a gentle female, cooing under the Occitan moon.
And every spring, at daybreak, the wind still carries a whisper:
"Que’t va plan, Clarmonde…" "Pas tant coma vos, Janòu…"
For love, when it is born under the wings of the South, never dies; it becomes legend.
In memory of the forbidden love between Janoù and Clarmonde, I offer you this piece of music:
Fly, dove, to my love
Tell her that one day I'll return
Tell her of the love I have for her
And that I'll never forget her Guy Pujol says l’ARIÉ…..JOIE