PAS DE FUMÉE SANS FEU - NO SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

2 texts: first in French, second in English





                                            TOUT  FEU, TOUT FLAMME


                                           Chaudes danseuses de l'hiver

                                         Les flammes s'agitent dans l'air.

                                                 Sous leurs jolis atours

                                      Le bois se consume, épris d'amour,

                                      Lui qui n'en a plus pour longtemps

                                       Espère vivre un dernier printemps.

                                        Mais elles ne veulent rien écouter

                                      Attirées par le conduit de cheminée,

                                                  Elles aspirent à s'enfuir

                                         Pour l'aventure, sans idée de nuire.

                                  Je rajoute un morceau pour comprendre :

                                           Les belles partent à son assaut,

                                          L'enlacent avec fougue aussitôt,

                                          Résolues à le réduire  en cendres.

                                              Seul  rempart à  leur volonté

                                          Elles le consomment avec célérité.

                                                 Ainsi libérées de leur licol,

                                            Ces braves finiront par gagner

                                             S'évanouissant en fumerolles

                                               Dans la froide nuit étoilée.




MY  TRANSLATION


                                                  

                                                       ALL FIRED UP

                                             
                                               Hot dancers of winter

                                             The flames stir  in the air .

                                             Under their pretty attires

                                             The wood burns, in love,

                                             It which has much longer

                                             Hope to live a last spring.

                                      But they do want to hear anything

                                         Attracted by the chimney flue,

                                              They aspire to escape

                                     For adventure, without harming idea.

                                           I add a piece to understand:
 
                                        The lovelies go up to its assault,
 
                                         Entwine it passionately at once
 
                                       Determined to reduce it to ashes.

                                        Only barrier to their willingness

                                             They consume it quickly.

                                             Thus freed of their halter,

                                     These courageous will ultimately win

                                             Disappearing in fumaroles

                                                 In the cold night sky.