I need to tell you
This story in the form of a tale
Since my guitar is tuned
I will sing it to you

Just behind my house
There is a large park surrounded by woods
Nothing extraordinary
Water, green spaces

It's a leisure base
Don't expect the worst
This song ends well
Everyone ends up safe and sound

In this little corner of nature
Come to breathe the fresh air
All the Sunday crowds
The beautiful girls swaying
The walking enthusiasts
Well-trained athletes
Hundreds of strollers
Fishermen in lounge chairs
In no time, exhibitionists
Artists with their heads in the clouds
On rollerblades or their bikes
The pretentious hipster couples
Swimming in the middle of the pond
Two majestic white swans
Add the friendly touch
Of a postcard

Am I privileged?
Maybe
The fact remains that my window
Offers me the front row seat
Of this place I praise
Now it happened one morning
I saw this uncommon act
Of seeing passing birds
About fifteen wild geese
Taking over all these places
I suppose for a bit of rest
Taking advantage of the pieces of bread
That my kids threw to them
The welcome was natural
And every day more and more
Bringing summer and winter alike
Shelter and food

No hunters on the horizon
Peacefulness in every season
In case of a storm, a shelter
The straw changed every Monday
The municipal police
By prefectural decree
Who come, oh fate
To act as bodyguards
The amused passersby, onlookers
Who come to photograph them
And for them alone all these hectares
A real star life

It is always a good omen
To talk about great adventures
But living them day by day
One holds a very different discourse
A bird is no less clever
They made, like everyone else
A wise decision
They stayed put
No more worry and doubt
About not being on the right path
Forgotten all the kilometers
The migration of their ancestors
The choice to rely on God
The choice to live young or old
And never eating at a table
It becomes very uncomfortable
Risking a twisted neck
At every moment, who knows where
To die in anonymity
In short, they stayed there

I who thought it was good
Like in Richepin's poems
I who believed it was wise
To be a passing bird
I who saw them become bourgeois
Their bohemian life forgotten
In the morning took my backpack
Left along the water's edge
On the path a bit dreamy
Became a traveler

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