Supplique pour être enterré à la plage de Sète [English translation]

Death, which never forgave me

for seeding flowers in his nostrils

is hounding me with idiotic zeal.

So, being closely surrouned by funerals,

I thought it a good idea to bring my will up to date,

to get myself a codicil.

Dip deeply into the blue ink of the Gulf of Lyons,

dip, dip your pen, my old notary,

and in your finest handwriting

note what is required to happen to my body

when my soul and it no longer agree

except on one single point: the break-up.

When my soul has taken its flight to the horizon,

towards those of Gavroche1 and Mimi Pinson2,

those of boys living on the streets and underpaid working class girls3,

Let my body be taken towards the ground where I was born,

in a sleeping car of the Paris - Mediterranean train,

which stops at the station in Sète.

My family vault, alas ! is not quite new,

putting it crudely it's as full as an egg,

and by the time anyone gets out of it

it could well be rather late, and I can't

say to these nice people : "budge over a bit, then,

make space for the young ones somehow".

Right beside the sea, two paces from the blue waves,

dig, if it's possible, a smooth hole

a nice little niche,

close to my childhood friends, the dolphins4,

along the shore where the sand is so fine,

on the Corniche beach.

It's a beach where even in his furious moments

Neptune never takes himself too seriously,

where, when a boat is shipwrecked,

the captain shouts : "I'm the master of the ship !

Every man for himself, but wine and pastis5 first,

Everyone take his demijohn, and dont worry".

And it's there in the past, when I was 15 years old,

the age when amusing oneself on ones own was no longer enough,

that I knew my first little bit of love.

In the company of a mermaid, a fish-woman,

I got the first lesson of love,

swallowed the first fish-bone.

With all due respect to Paul Valéry6,

I, the humble troubador am going one better than him,

may the good master pardon me for that.

and if his poetry is better than mine, at least

let my burial place be more marine7 than his,

although it might upset the natives8.

This tomb sandwiched between sky and water

won't add a gloomy aspect to the picture

but an undefinable charm.

Female bathers will use it as a screen against the wind

and to get changed, and little children

will say: "terrific, a sand castle!"

Is it too much to ask: on my little plot

plant, I beg you, some sort of pine tree,

umbrella pine, preferably,

Which will be able to protect from sunstroke

those good friends who have come to my grave

to offer affectionate nods.

Sometimes coming from Spain and sometimes from Italy,

bearing lots of perfumes and pretty music,

the Mistral and the Tramontane

will pour onto my final sleep the echos

of villanelle one day, of fandango another day,

of tarantella, of sardana.

And when, taking my mound for a pillow,

a sea nymph comes politely to take a nap

with very little clothing,

I ask Jesus for forgiveness in advance

if the shadow of his cross lies on her a little

for a small posthumous joy.

Poor pharaoh kings, poor Napoleon,

Poor departed great men lying in the Pantheon,

Poor important ashes,

You will be a bit envious of the perpetual holidaymaker

who rides his pedalo on the wave while dreaming,

who spends his death on holiday.

You will be a bit envious of the perpetual holidaymaker

who rides his pedalo on the wave while dreaming,

who spends his death on holiday.

1. literary reference to a character in Hugo's Les Miserables a Parisian street urchin who joind the revolution of 18322. another literary reference, this one to the title charactor of the poem "Mimi Pinson, profil de grisette" by de Musset3. originally girls working for less than a living wage,for example in clothing factories, or as domestic servants, grisette coming from their typical garb - a cheap grey dress, who sometimes got by by becoming "kept women"4. the Swimming Club at Sète, not the marine animals5. pastis is a anise and licorice flavoured liqueur, very popular in southern France6. famous French poet, was born in Sète in 1871 and died and was buried there in the Cimetière St Charles in 19457. in 1946 the Cimetière St Charles was renamed Cimetiére Marin (after a poem by Valéry published in 1920) in honour of it's new occupant. Brassens' suggested beach burial place was rather nearer the sea8. Brassens seems to be suggesting that at least some of the local people would prefer it if a controversial character like him never came back to Sète, whether dead or alive