Supplique Pour Être Enterré Sur La Plage de Sète

The Grim Reaper who never forgave me
For planting flowers in the holes of his nose
Is chasing me with a foolish zeal

So surrounded by funerals
I thought it wise to update my will
To add a codicil

Soak it in the blue ink of the Gulf of Lion
Soak, soak your pen, oh my old notary
And write in your finest script

Note what should happen to my body
When my soul and it no longer agree
On just one point: the break

When my soul has taken flight to the horizon
To join Gavroche and Mimi Pinson
Those of the street kids, the working girls

Let my body be brought back to the homeland
In a sleeper car from Paris to the Mediterranean
Final stop at the station in Sète

My family vault, alas! Is not brand new
To put it bluntly, it’s packed like an egg
And until someone gets out

It might take a while, and I can’t
Tell these good folks: Please move over a bit
Make way for the young ones, in a way

Right by the sea, just a stone's throw from the blue waves
Dig, if possible, a cozy little hole
A nice little niche

Next to my childhood friends, the dolphins
Along this shore where the sand is so fine
On the beach of the cornice

It’s a beach where even in its furious moments
Neptune never takes himself too seriously
Where when a boat sinks

The captain shouts: I’m the master on board!
Save who can, the wine and pastis first
Everyone grab their bottle and good luck

And it’s there that once, at fifteen years old
At the age when having fun alone isn’t enough
I experienced my first crush

Next to a mermaid, a fish-woman
I received the first lesson in love
Swallowed the first bone

With all due respect to Paul Valéry
I, the humble troubadour, will outdo him
The good master will forgive me

And at least if his verses are better than mine
Let my grave be more maritime than his
And let it not displease the locals

This grave sandwiched between the sky and the sea
Will not cast a sad shadow on the scene
But an indefinable charm

The bathers will use it as a screen
To change their clothes, and the little kids
Will say: Cool, a sandcastle!

Is it too much to ask: on my little plot
Please plant a kind of pine
Preferably a parasol pine

That will shield against sunburn
For the good friends who come to pay their respects
With affectionate bows

Sometimes coming from Spain and sometimes from Italy
All loaded with perfumes, with pretty music
The Mistral and the Tramontane

On my final sleep will pour the echoes
Of villanelle, one day, one day of fandango
Of tarantella, of sardana

And when taking my mound as a pillow
A water nymph comes gently to nap
With hardly any clothes on

I apologize in advance to Jesus
If the shadow of my cross lies a bit on top
For a little posthumous happiness

Poor pharaohs, poor Napoleon
Poor great ones lying in the Pantheon
Poor ashes of consequence

You’ll envy a bit the eternal vacationer
Who pedals on the wave while dreaming
Who spends his death on vacation

You’ll envy a bit the eternal vacationer
Who pedals on the wave while dreaming
Who spends his death on vacation