Cerf-volant (Paper plane)

I came across this tiny little song from the 2004 movie Les Choristes (The Chorus) called Cerf-volant (Paper plane). It has a very simple little melody which (I think) like the song goes a long way. 

You can listen to the song here

Here are the lyrics with the meaning, 

Cerf-volant
Volant au vent
Ne t'arrête pas
Vers la mer
Haut dans les airs
Un enfant te voit
Voyage insolent
Troubles enivrants
Amours innocentes
Suivent ta voie
Suivent ta voie
En volant

Cerf-volant
Volant au vent
Ne t'arrête pas
Vers la mer
Haut dans les airs
Un enfant te voit
Et dans la tourmente
Tes ailes triomphantes
N'oublie pas de revenir
Vers moi

-

Paper plane
Flying in the wind
Do not stop
Go to the sea
High up in the air
A child sees you
Traveling insolently ‘midst
Intoxicating confusion 
Innocent loves
Follow your path
Follow your path
While flying

Paper plane
Flying in the wind
Do not stop
Go to the sea
High up in the air
A child sees you
And in the storm
Your wings triumphant
Do not forget to return
Towards me

Lorsque imaginant un après-midi

Ligne par ligne, tellement lisse                         
L’une après l’autre, c’est près arrondi                               
Cette argile fait prêt par les mains des Dieux           
Tranquil comme la lumière au fond de l'océan          
Doucement soupirant, presque gravé dans le corail,
à travers lequel, les eaux de ce monde                            
passent par en murmurants sourdinés                               
presque pur, où toutes les salettes de l'eau                     
ne peut pas mais se déposent                                         
Ici, au fond de l'océan, ici c'est où le lieu                         
le plus proche du coeur de cette Terre.    

(Penned Sept 13, 2010)     

While at play

Up in arms the house is

Ruckus, wrecking havoc

With the neighbours

Oh come see, doesn’t stop

It doesn’t just, this wailing

Like the clanging

Of cymbals at prayer hour

Terrifying the din, the mayhem

To alleviate, to silence

What cannot be seen

In the child that wails

Without reason

He was out in the yard

And scampered home

With legions

Of his terrifying selves

Oh come see, what

Bites into him, so invisibly

How do we root it out?

Oh the sheer distress

Of this errant

Splinter.

(Penned Sept 13, 2010)

3 selected verses (Sheenagh Pugh)

The Bereavement of the Lion-Keeper
Who stayed, long after his pay stopped,
in the zoo with no visitors,
just keepers and captives, moth-eaten,
growing old together.

Who begged for meat in the market-place
as times grew hungrier,
and cut it up small to feed him,
since his teeth were gone.

Who could stroke his head, who knew
how it felt to plunge fingers
into rough glowing fur, who has heard
the deepest purr in the world.

Who curled close to him, wrapped in his warmth,
his pungent scent, as the bombs fell,
who has seen him asleep so often,
but never like this.

Who knew that elderly lions
were not immortal, that it was bound
to happen, that he died peacefully,
in the course of nature,

but who knows no way to let go
of love, to walk out of sunlight,
to be an old man in a city
without a lion.

Sometimes
Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

The Beautiful Lie
He was about four, I think... it was so long ago.
In a garden; he'd done some damage
behind a bright screen of sweet-peas
- snapped a stalk, a stake, I don't recall,
but the grandmother came and saw, and asked him:
"Did you do that?"

Now, if she'd said why did you do that,
he'd never have denied it. She showed him
he had a choice. I could see, in his face,
the new sense, the possible. That word and deed
need not match, that you could say the world
different, to suit you.

When he said "No", I swear it was as moving
as the first time a baby's fist clenches
on a finger, as momentous as the first
taste of fruit. I could feel his eyes looking
through a new window, at a world whose form
and colour weren't fixed

but fluid, that poured like a snake, trembled
around the edges like northern lights, shape-shifted
at the spell of a voice. I could sense him filling
like a glass, hear the unreal sea in his ears.
This is how to make songs, create men, paint pictures,
tell a story.

I think I made up the screen of sweet peas.
Maybe they were beans; maybe there was no screen,
it just felt as if there should be, somehow.
And he was my - no, I don't need to tell that.
I know I made up the screen.  And I recall very well
what he had done.

About the poet

Possibly the best 'Dear Edward' letter. Ever.

'Dear Edward: I've gone back and
forth the last few days, trying to
decide whether or not I should
even write this.'

'In the end, I realized I would
regret it if I didn't, so here
goes.'

'I know the last time we saw each
other, we weren't exactly hitting
the sweetest notes.'

'It certainly wasn't the way I
wanted the trip to end.'

'I suppose I'm responsible, and
for that I'm sorry. But, in all
honesty, if I had the chance, I'd
do it again.'

...

'There's no way I can repay you
for all you've done for me. So
rather than try, I'm just going to
ask you to do something else for
me: Find the joy in your life.'

'You once said you're not
everyone. Well, that's true.
You're certainly not everyone.
But everyone is everyone.'

'My pastor always says, "Our lives
are streams flowing into the same
river towards whatever heaven lies
in the mist beyond the falls."
Find the joy in your life, Edward.'

Source: An extract from the original script of The Bucket List

Script at http://is.gd/eR5To

Sans titre

Lorsque je l'ai entendue (As I heard) http://is.gd/ePOQV

J’ai écrit ce qui suit. (I wrote what follows)

_

Perdu, c'est mon lapin
Dans les petites boules de savon
Dans leurs arcs-en-ciel fascinants
Tourbillonants
à chaque micro-instant
Quand ils dansent.
Le soleil a toujours
Beaucoup de
trucs dans son sac.

_

Lost is, my little rabbit

In the tiniest of soap bubbles

In their fascinating rainbows

Swirling

In each micro-instant

That they dance.

The sun always has

Many tricks

Up his sleeve. 

(Penned Sept 2, 2010)