Текст песни Peste Noire - A La Chaise-Dyable

It’s 4 PM, the sun is falling, it’s time
For some ruddy-amber Jenlain Picon.
I’m going wild, brain over stretched,
I turn on my stereo, BM at full volume all night long I stay awake…
Every night I keep awake
At la Chaise-Dyable.

At la Chaise-Dyable
The mountain air is a more powerful drug than the strongest psychoactive.
At la Chaise-Dyable
The cold breath of the forests comes sweeping into the parishes
And howls like a devil, bouncing against the abbey – that impenetrable fortress –
Where wild and rebellious monks dress like crows
And all have faces taken straight from the Middle Ages.

Below my home there’s the Senouire valley. The old people wonder why I moved here. I tell them that I like the landscapes. They answer: You like ghosts?

Later, at 11 PM, I hear the sound of a tractor, I take a look out the window: it’s the old man who plows like a trooper.

In the vales of the non-being

I measure the point to which this lonely guy, all these lonely people, must bend double under the weight of all these gloomy nights.

I remember that just behind my house that empty farm belonged to two blokes who committed suicide, and that the other neighbour beyond it also bought the farm of a hanged guy. And I begin to feel depressed.

Thinking of all these villages whose cemeteries are bigger than the scatter of houses, and whose war memorial bear more names than their living inhabitants.

I’m thinking about my life, this dark tale written by a sadist
Where I see as clearly as through a glory hole
Then I’m having hot sweats, a lumbago
I sweat halos,
Tears of alcohol.

I remember hatred
When I was crazy, when I was alive
And then the nights in La Chaise-Dieu
When I took more pleasure in drinking
Than in fucking.
I wanted to be a survivalist
But as the spleen is my queen
I ended up deceasalist
A disheartened asshole
In the heart of a wooded hole…

When I arrived here there was a Christ in the attic
I stuck it on my guitar
Upside down.
Am I going crazy or what, believe it ot not?
But in a good old sardonic French
This statue is now yelling to me:

‘Come on, you’ve killed no one
Wait for your end to come
This life was your punishment
And peacefully
You’ve served your sentence.

Come on, you’ve killed no one
May your liver abandon you
This life taunted you like a hyena
But quietly
You’ve eaten your hatred.’

And calmly, I ate my hatred.
And calmly, I ATE MY HATRED.