A la Chaise-Dyable [English translation]

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 until your end sounds

This life was your punishment

And nicely

You have served your time

Come on, you killed nobody

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

• Artist:Peste Noire
• Album:La Chaise-Dyable