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... Moss on the gate
Of the abandoned garden,
Around only the sea
I loved you.
Imagine a horse full of freedom galloping.
That kind of freedom that only a vigorous and wild horse can have, that kind of unreachable, absolute freedom for us.
A horse that, like the waves, continually chases the mainland.
He is in an infinite, vast space and in front of him, there is only St. Michel rising from nothing with all its mystery, with all its magic set for millennia, its ambiguity, its poetry literally its own and no one else's, its secrecy.
A singer-songwriter sings, sometimes plays, writes.
The singer-songwriter is a simple man, a music craftsman, almost a writer, almost a poet.
A singer-songwriter cannot help but talk about certain things, tackle certain topics: of love, of love, and then again of love.
Year 1989 - I was -1 years old, and in the album "La vita mia" there is a track titled "St. Michel".
But what is St. Michel?
It is the "WONDER OF THE WEST" Mont Saint-Michel.
"An island, a wave of spires and towers" is "a whim in the open sea."
It is an enchanted place, which seems to have come out of a storybook, loaded with millennial history and legends, ready to offer unexpected emotions.
Thanks to its magnificent bay, the charm of the medieval village, the majesty of the abbey, and the wonderful spectacle of the tides, which transform it first into an island and then into a hill.
"Your strange gaze,
and a kiss in the summer wind...
Love grows like the tide."
The tide that, according to Victor Hugo's description, advances as rapidly as a galloping horse.
And who, if not a singer-songwriter along with his dear lyricist friend, could best describe this magic that rises from nothing aiming straight at the sky: with its little streets, with its walls defending the magic, with its basilica that puts an end and a limit to this infinite beauty.
How could these two lost men, these two men exhausted by love, lost in dreams, in words.
How could they not tell a wonderful love story amidst all this magic, in that point of Normandy where nothing real seems to be left.
And no! They could not.
Look, love, at the sea as it rises
it's hard to return to our homes,
to return to the port,
without a boat and without a sail.
If bicycles were seagulls,
we would fly away into the Sky,
into the Sky further South.
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