I Listen to Nino Ferrer
On a rather sunny day, with greyish clouds hanging so close to the window sill, I listen to Nino Ferrer.
It’s about that place, again. Le sud, the south. Something with too many sunshines, houses built with ray of happiness and mazarine, sparkling beaches and pale ocean. Cats walking around with their four little feet, softly grunting while embracing the warm weather. Dogs playing with linen, golden furs getting blown by the dazzling – though whispering – all year summer wind.
On a rather bleak day, when I feel down and ready to give everything up just for a little bit of peace I can’t bought, I listen to Nino Ferrer.
It takes me far, but mostly I ended up by the window sill; again. Looking outside, smelling the scent of mellowing wheat and budding tiny flowers’ crown. I see small feet running around the old part of the calming, slightly tucked, charmingly hidden town. Drying clothes hanging just on the corner of the stonewall, bathing in feverishly yellow sunlight.
And you know, et toujours en été
