The Curse. Josh Ritter.

La maman et le pantin

Toute la poésie du monde est là, avec ses trois bouts de ficelle qui vous nouent le cœur. Et toute la poésie du monde est là dans cette chanson touchante. C'est une histoire belle, si vous comprenez l'anglais, sinon, lisez l'image de ces pantins, elle se suffit. Une histoire d'amour impossible et qui a impossiblement lieu, comme toutes, sans doute. Le sable émouvant du temps les rend inoubliables.

Je dédie ce post au Méhariste dont le commentaire m'a énormément touché.(She asked : You are cursed ?" He said : "I think I am cured.")

He opens his eyes falls I love at first sight
With the girl in the doorway
What beautiful lines and how full of life
After thousands of years what a face to wake up to
He holds back a sigh as she touches his arm
She dusts off the bed where 'til now he's been sleeping
And under miles of stone, the dried fig of his heart
Under scarab and bone starts back to it's beating
She carries him home in a beautiful boat
He watches the sea from a porthole in stowage
He can hear all she says as she sits by his bed
And one day his lips answer her in her own language
The days quickly pass he loves making her laugh
The first time he moves it's her hair that he touches
She asks, "Are you cursed?" He says, "I think that I'm cured"
Then he talks of the Nile and the girls in bulrushes
In New York he is laid in a glass covered case
He pretends he is dead people crowd round to see him
But each night she comes round and the two wander down
The hall of the tomb that she calls a museum
Often he stops to rest but then less and less
Then it's her that looks tired staying up asking questions
He learns how to read from the papers that she
Is writing about him and he makes corrections
It's his face on her book more and more come to look
Families from Iowa, upper west siders
Then one day it's too much he decides to get up
And as chaos ensues he walks outside to find her
She's using a cane and her face looks to pale
But she's happy to see him as they walk he supports her
She asks, "Are you cursed?" but his answer's obscured
In a sandstorm of flashbulbs and rowdy reporters
Such reanimation the two tour the nation
He gets out of limos he meets other women
He speaks of her fondly their nights in the museum
But she's just one more rag now he's dragging behind him
She stops going out she just lies there in bed
In hotels in whatever towns they are speaking
Then her face starts to set and her hands start to fold
And one day the dried fig of her heart stops it's beating
Long ago in the ship she asked, "Why pyramids?"
He said, "Think of them as an immense invitation"
She asked, "Are you cursed?" He said, "I think that I'm cured"
Then he kissed her and hoped that she'd forget that question