It was on a beach near Sete at the foot of a church now covered with concrete, that was really buried Georges Brassens few nights after his death. The poets said there are not prisoners of burial land and marble but dreams and tears of those who mourn.
Two teenagers a night of drinking a memory of their countryman took helm mine and picks and went to steal the ancestor boring reverences those n'adorent the poets after their mouth is you.

If an evening storm on the Gulf of lion, you stroll along the beach of the coastal tourist the parties, you do hear a classical guitar chord of the metal.

This will not be thinking is Georges who plays his back turned to marble stupid that he dedia gaze lost in the clouds that pass, there ... the beautiful clouds