Uncaged

 

Free your mind, and let it soar above the common beliefs
Free your mind, and let it soar above the common belief

Sometimes, you  may say to yourself, “I think I over do, now,” by using the same terms over and over,  people get tired of the blah, at the end _ yadayada, I know, but trying to grab some audiences, it’s hard for a blogger, everyone knows that, and everyone looks for it. Not that I need it. There are some causes, ideals, Aristotelianism, are lost in advance, I knew it the moment I started blogging. It’s not a self-flagellation either, but it was an awareness of the moment; the disappearance  of a species, but  the welfare of a bird, it’s the least concern today.

That is, when you feel like you have exhausted, when all the possible and imaginary means, using the Prompts of the day, quotes, poetry from poets, and writers… You’re about to throw the towel. Then, sometimes, by  just listening to a song, like  the one ” Drift Away” from Rod Stewart. Then, you have the declic, it puts you back on tracks

Day after day, I’m more confused
Yet I look for the light through the pourin’ rain
You know that’s a game that I hate to loose
And I’m feelin’ the strain, ain’t it a shame
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Beginnin’ to think that I’m wastin’ time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
Now I’m countin’ on you to carry me through*

Yet,  this is it, You get then, a feeling, that you want to fling to the world, your plea,
_”Give me the beats boys, and free my soul,I wanna get lost in your conversation, and lost in translation, and drift away.”
_”Give me the courage to persevere writing, blogging, and posting, for a noble cause to save an endangered bird from disappearing.”
Because it has been five years in the making of Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch blog, that I’m blogging and posting, posts after posts, through the Internet, and WordPress, to make my call inviting people to join my conversation, to get the bird, tha Goldfinch, namely, free from the cage, from all the cages around the world.
Because, when you write, it’s your voice that you hear, your silent monologue settles inside your mind, you want to shout it out load what you have in your gusts, and you want to get out the hell of it those itching words that are elbowing against each other’s, who to come first to the open, to  put it down to paper, at the view of the common reader, and accepting be critiqued, for you audacity, and daring to compose and post such non-sense. Like this one, such as.

It’s insane, I know, but I am not the only one, there is a lot of celebrities out there, they went, like Don Quixote De La Pampa, battling against the windmills, but more than a daydream, they make it their cause, like the French Actress Brigitte Bardot, defending the seals against their abusive massacre, and many more others, Ushuaia, We discover each day that million of species are  almost disappearing from the surface of the earth.

So, I learned more, thence in my quest of sources to support my cause than, I expected, in my own beliefs, that the cause has the merits to be consistent, and true, that is not being a utopia, a euphoric chimera of the mind. When you know that the name Goldfinch is deeply anchored in the sub-conscience of the people through the ages, be it religious beliefs, like in Christian  literatures or propane rites and customs and not merely folks traditions, by only checking into Wikipedia.

when you know that John Kavanagh, Keats, Dona and the list is long , to cite just few, had  the privilege to be the predecessors in evoking the goldfinch in their poems, and proses, in their essays and masterpiece, than I believe that it worth borne identity of El Mackneen, the Algerian Goldfinch, even it was futile and elusive matter of blogging about.

When you get to know that a writer has a Noble Price, like  Dona Tart, a novel that has a name of the goldfinch, it’s no shame to kvel well up. So, although it was just a dream at it début , yet  it has been already five years that I  blog under the name of Macknee, The Algerian Goldfinch, may be one day, it comes to light.

It’s time to free my mind, and uncage my imagination.

image

_knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world, Einstein

It’s not the cage that encircles the idea. It’s the mind, free your mind, and let is soar above the common beliefs.

Thank you for reading

 

*Read more: Dobie Gray – Drift Away Lyrics | MetroLyrics

 

There You Are, And Here I Am

Source: There You Are 

“a dying language regressing
to your origin regressing
to the rib whittling yourself
down to a single bone to be
allowed another chance”

“Eden, nobody will be screaming
to harvest you in the new
Eden there will be birds
but no mirrors or dew
to reflect you back like a star
and force you to stare into
your own furred face and cry
there you are
again.”

_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

And sill here I am.
_The Cry of birds_Grew from the ramage of birds to the hurry of wind_Hugh McCrae

Here I am, for the nonce
Here I am in a cage
My cry grew from the ramage
Of birds, To the hurry of winds
Shall I  ever have a chance
To fly, fly, again, and drift away
Finally Home, I’ll cry and I’ll say
That’s, the one and only once
I need yes in deed, to be free
Thence, all I need is my wings
to spread in spree
Here I am, and always be
You put me one day in a cage
Can’t you see me today that I age?
Can’t you see me that I am bleeding?
Can’t you see me that I am weeping?
Like a violin bow, on its hair string
T’was the first day of Spring
That day going my way straight to my fate
That I used to be free before t’was too late
Then I was nattering in my joy and glee
With No motive for my killing spree
Spending my joy from tree to tree
Having no foe, nor a prey I was to be
Safe that a carol of joy betrayed me
I was caught In a dream-catcher net
It was a gloomy day, that’s Ô! My fate
Mother Nature comes to me, ready set for rejoice
Full of fun, laughing of plenty to hear my voice
For, You don’t know why I sing, ah! me
It was the first day of Spring, for me
It’s only but a prayer, from the bottom of my heart I sing
but a plea I wish you hear me, that upward to Heaven I fling
That one day  you may let me free, before it was too late
No more I can fly, nor my wings I can spread
It’s only Poetry, a lady
she knows toward me, she said

I know why The Caged Birds Sing

I know why The Caged Birds sing, ah me,
 when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore
 when he hit the bars, and would be free;
 it is not a carol of joy or glee,
 But a prayer that he sends from his hearth's deep core,
 but a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings
 I know why the caged bird sings_Maya Angelou

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Know_Why_the_Caged_Bird_Sings

Let It Be
Paul McCartney
Lyrics
When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

That’s my carol of joy and glee
Now that’s here I am, and free
_Homage to El Baji,an Algerian singer and songwriter of Algiers of Old, Kalimelo

Dust on the road

This your song
Father and son

“It’s not a time to make a change
Just relax and take it easy”

Diamonds, money, and gold
Ago a kid, I was told
Are just dust on the road,
Your soul you never sold
To the devil, a king or fiend
and bold You stay,

for a dime you swoop
Sweat and tears, Down the road
Make it’s  your  pocket your friend
And become rich one day you hope,
It’s a better man you are now
Poor, than being a million dollars man
Without goodness in your heart
Stay clean of all vices

Be kind to your man
That’s all my advises
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at the me I am old but I am happy

A Heart of Chocolate

Quotes
Chocolate, it can be said, is not merely a candy, but a powerful love potion whose reputation for inspiring amative feelings is universally known.
– Anahad O’Connor, Never Shower in a Thunderstorm, 2007

Oh! My Sweet Nothin’
Will you be My Vatentine_
today
Now I am more amative to say
you see, that is I love you everyday
Today a lot more than yesterday
And a little less than tomorrow
I brought you my heart of chocolate
It’s bittersweet usually, I know
it’s not merely a candy also
But today it’s a lit’le silky smooth
Ain’t nothing about to blow a tout
Don’t treat it in shaft
I came right to your door
with a dozen of roses and flowers
A bottle of champagne and more
Say “yes”to me, if It’s not too late
Tonight I am talking out
You see, je t’aime encore

_Kalimelo

By heart, and not by rote

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/179622#.Vp2oMM-aHWc.maillto

Poetry Foundation

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

© 2015 Poetry Foundation


You know, the melody is so strong there’s nothing you have to do with it. If you tried to play bebop on it, you’d wind up being a hip cornbagrown same thing, I have to do now is make things connect, make them mean something in what I play around it.

—Miles Davis, on “Concierto de Aranjuez” from Sketches of Spain

By heart, and not by rote
An Exquisite Duet

Because you want to know
How much I love you, so_
That’s, I learnt it by heart
I Carry It in with me, wherever I go
and by rote I learnt though
I whisper it into the ears of the wind
your name I carry it in my mind
Whenever l’m calling you

On the string,
the violin wears out the bow
That’s I miss you so
Like the ocean waves the more
Miss the shore
It recalls in memory
Where it lives
And in my mind never leaves
This piece of poetry.
Longtime I wrote it
on the sands of the road
at an age I were free.
Now gone with the wind

It’s here deep, in my heart
Where It took its root
As a young love in its way
grown and spree
To the moon making its route
I carry your heart, I carry it in
In my heart, At the soul of my soul,
A branded name a tattoo
I show it to the world
How much I love you too

I carry it in, anytime where I go
to the light, A thousand suns,
You are the sky, where it shines
Settling on a rainbow
For, a star had made my day
the night It came to my window,
and since then, it never died

I made you my soulmate my Soul
The day of wonders, we met.
Outside, it was nice and cool
Snow falling on a pine tree
The moment, when I wrote
This piece of poetry

I keep it silent now
When you listen to me.
Something the air, This melody
while my violin gently weeps
On the  string_ I tell you how
It worn its hair, the bow.
When The wind will sing is you

Speaks, Memories
It’s where for you I keep
And I didn’t say a word
Because you want to know
How much love I carry for you
For your yes only you can read

_KALIMElO

“Here’s the deepest secret nobody knows
I carry your heart with me(I carry it in
My heart) wherever I go”_* E.E. Cummings

Wanderer

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/the-wanderer/

I had become a souvenir,
I was an edelweiss, once_
a weathered bud, for the nonce
Flattered whim between the fold
Of a yellowed diary pages_ I was told
Now I have a place where I rest.
I wished  It were near to your heart
Yesterday, I was standing stress-free
Cleansed by the hilltop winds,
Reached only by, at eagle’s wings
None of a poet, did it  for his killing spree
That the snows, it was my nest.
Downhill the Mount Everest,
I picked it for you, my soul-mate
What can I do now to please you_
My dear, the summit that I climbed it.
That Life is already consumed,
Strewn by miracles, on our way.
We saw the day of wonders we met,
the birds at our knees, we knelt
I put a flower in your hair
That Spring was it, in the air
Our souls were we had melt.
Still do you remember, do you?

_Kalimelo

Ah, my ponctuations!

“Going By the Dots.” And get lost.

“You can pretend to be serious; you can’t pretend to be witty.”
― Sacha Guitry

In my early classes of elementary school, I had a Frensh teacher. We had dictation always in the first period. So, to teach us grammar, and spelling, at the beginning, he used to articulate on each word he pronouciates it , so that we had to learn the sounds, and to vocalize on the vowels, consonses, and the likes. Then, when it came to reading, and writing, and how long it tates to stop to breathe at the period, colon,  semi-colon, and all the bataclan, things became complicated. It became harder,and harder. Furthermore, not only he articulated each word, but also he pronounced  the ponctuation name. For eg: when the phrase ended, by a period; he said ” period,” some pupils wrote the word( period), others wrote it, plus the dot, and so on. It took sometime, to the classe to get along with all the charabia_gebbrish thing. But  the funny part of it was, when the ponctuations were replaced by the silent stops in place of the dot, and the length of time it took to breath, so as the confusion settled for the longest, as the speed of the dictation gained momentum, and the time of the stops diminished, for the pupils it was whither to place it,  whether to choose between a comma, a colon, or  semi-colon.

The anecdotal, finally; at one dictation, the teacher went so fast on reading the text, that one of the pupils namely Toto himself, omitted literally all of the ponctuations at once, but he put them all at the end of the last line of the dictation. Without omitting to put a note to the teacher: please, put them where they belong , before giving back his copy to the teacher  Period

_ Toto and, The Pearls of Sasha Guitry

_”Where are my ponctuations, damn it!”

Memoires d’un tricheur, by Sasha Guitry

Conchita’s

“Smell You Later.”

“There is a smell on you later, left behind as silences  settled,  and laughers still echoing, and with something in the air, that lingers longer in the house and on things long after she departed”_Kalimelo

_”Smells Like Teen Spirit”

Conchita’s, with her lightweight silhouette, like a feather sustained in the air; her image it’s still as vivid in my mind as a burnt cigar left on my skin; it was an  image of a Flamenco woman dancer, printed on the cover of a pack of my  first  fine cigars that I used to smok when I was a teen of fifteen years old, that I recall sometimes when I see the scar on the back of my hand. Her depart was such sweet sorrow of not equall that I a smashed the fine cigar on my hind. I feel the pain in my skin. It was like the first time when you fall in love with a girl ; for the first time you kissed her, you’re in wonders, you laugh then you cry just after, then you want to be together forever ; as for the first time like when you smoke your first cigarette, you cough, and with your eye-watering, you discover then that’s, what cigars and women, alike, they had something in common, that they make you  suffer at first, then you get the habits of it to live with them, and with time, that when you get comfortable in their company,  then suddenly, and as always it happens, that dolorous moment came when departing is such sweet sorrow; that is, at our expenses, thence we realize that is, women, we can’t live with them, and we can’t live without them.
But then we can quite smoking, oftentimes, but we can’t forget our first love all a one’s life time.

“Quatorze-ans, Les Gauloises Ça fait mal a l’aise.”

_*At Fourteen years-old, and cigs just make you sick, “Gauloises,”_French black tabaco cigarettes

“And I forget just why I taste                                                                                                      yeah, I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard; it’s hard to find
Oh well, whatever, never mind”
_Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit Lyrics

She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts  student in Paris, years later on, then I was looking for a model, wondering in La Butte-Mont-Marthre. I discovered her, Degas, and his pastels,  that so delicate, and volatile, as she was, elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours watching her performing pirouettes, pas-de-deux, and grand-equarts, so wide open, for, your eyes stayed opened that you can hung your Bêret, or “…your hat_ Mark Twain”, and holding your breath and your heart still pending to her movements, I stayed sitting there watching her, in a corner of the dancing room, a piece of charcoal in one hand, and a cigarette “Gitannes”, at the end of my finger tips, as the smoke-filled the air, and her laughers resounding in the hall; I was trying to fix  that moment on paper, and drawing thousands of thumbnail figures as she moved, in vain. That’s I sketched on, and on, on drawings sheets, listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,” once alone, when back to my tiny studio, later on.
Sometimes, I found myself staring into a blank sheet, as she moved, like in a day  – dream, à- contrejour  or standing in the loggia,  looking vaguely into the rain falling on the tilded roofs of Mont-Martre.

I love the way she wals
What the hell, rage, give in to Natural Graces_Alan Ducan

She has something in the way she moves, that Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, I loved the way she walked, I loved the way she talked, so peculiar to Parisiennes women , that captivates, and charms you : she was a gifted performer woman, with all graces and allure, walking, and dancing , steeps skipping, and skills, tip-toeing on her ballerina shoes, a virtuosity that enthralled her audiences, sometimes to put or hold you in slavery, when she talks, and laugh, you get sustained and hooked to her lips like being hypnotized by an Indian fakir, to fall at the charm of his flûte.

image

And we had fallen  in love with each other, effortlessly, get accustomed and as usually it happens, it happened with me, comme d’ habitude . We broke up with each other, querelles d’amour sometimes, few months later, for some reason or without, perhaps for having been too much in love of  each other’s that we burned our candel too fast, from both sides . Perhaps, I was asking too much, I wanted her for myself, all by my own, I was jealous, for she hadn’t time for me, just a little, the time for a pose, and  the fact that she uniquely reserved her time, and for Art all devoted and only. Go figure

Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.__Constantine Cavafy

I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre, then, we were  all time hungry, and broke, surviving on œufs-aux-plats, d’Amour et d’eau fraîche, and  I, more waiting for her, and in a want, till, one day she never came. Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco, wacthing Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Manitas-De-Platas, buried my chagrin d’amour in Cervejas, to conjure the spell on me. I surrendered to some réconfort in reading “The Sun Also Rises “, the book of Hemingway, in a way. Then from there, to Barcelona, with Maria Rodriguez, the Fado lamenting sodade, that it revived in me the open wound, reminding me that ” Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.” And only have dear and cognate in Porto wines on the Taj, transported by a  bitter-sweet sorrow,  but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued  than, that It was a fascination by the quest.
Sometimes, the object of the quest is as elusive love-object, as in André Breton’s surrealist novel Nadja, in which the mysterious woman persued by the narrator is, in a way, that embodies the mysteries of Paris itself, instead, I found myself flâneur in the streets of Paris, without.

It is said that the Taj Mahal, was was built by an India prince Mogul of old times, in memory of the loss of his beloved princess, and wife. He ordered from the best architect in town to design the palace where the princess will be buried , knowing that the artist was in love with a woman, he put her in prison until she died, the time it took him to build the palace, the artist was in such a sorrowful state of mind so inconsolable that he put all his passion to finish it before she died, unfortunately, that both the prince and the artist found themselves in the same state, contemplating the most beautiful object that embodies love with, with an incommensurable pain in their hearts.

“There is a smell on you later, left as laughers and silences settled, and something in the air of subtle perfume and rare tabaco, that lingers longer in the house and on things, after she departed”_Kalimelo

Longing, un Amour sans fin, endless Love

Alas! If-i-could-turn-back-time
The other day, at a corner of  street, in Soho, a vanishing scent of musk, perfume, and tabaco that stayed in the air, au passage of mysterious stranger woman, transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees, balconies and wisterias of Montmartre; it has been longtime that I quitted smoking, the Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros,in Paris and moved to New York. They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of the olfactory senses, smells, perfumes, as you had  lost your odorant sense while you were  smoking, they say, but what do they know about lost love? Getting Sentimental

Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart  is such sweet sorrow,” perchance, you discovered that but when it’s too late.

Are you a latin lover?_Kalimelo

Gone get the milk,

“Memory on the Menu.”

@nytimesarts: Harper Lee’s ‘Go Set a Watchman’ http://t.co/yzdI1ofKlj

image

“It’s always exciting when a long-forgotten manuscript is unearthed, dusted off, and at the eve of being published. But when that book is related to To Kill a Mockingbird — one of the most beloved modern classics, the BPL treasures which I return to for my readings often, and I crave to see old movies,  and rare books, also that I had borrowed from, lately — anticipation goes through the roof.”

calendar/kill-mockingbird-special

“Memory on the Menu.” Coincidence is mother of opportunities, as the saying goes.
“Speaks, memories.”_Vladimir Nabokov
So, what is the relationship between the two modern classics?One may say.
As it comes in recall, with  a prompt  at your rescue, like if it was  a Saint-Bernard doggie; then you have no choice rather than to muse on: Which memories are better  fit? – the recent and vivid ones, or those that time has covered in a sweet haze?_No doubt, both, and how whimsical it is; it triggered you to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink, it sands you some decades back to same places of childhood, always. Isn’t it? The Early Years

Rereading again How Kill The Mocking bird, and Go set a watchman, some fifty years later, as memories mingle together with the present, and the past, standing at the edge of two abysses it’s like seeing oneself absent from the cradle in the photo, as the parents standing aside smiling at you, then where are you at that moment?like in “speak, Memories of Nabocov narrative.

“One must live his life, and only once, seize the opportunity as it comes to you, and make it happens, to see his dream comes true one day, and  make history. Your own history.”_ Kalimelo
For, having the chance to live actually in the same era as when was set up the How to kill the mocking bird story in the book, it’s a great deal now, to recall all those olden times.
Some go fishing, some go hunting, others birds watching, and seashore rattling, I belong to the tribe of old movies goers, rare books reading, and sentences watching.

In the early 60s, at the time  of the events in America, I was twelve years old then , and I was fascinated by Color movies the cinema with panoramic view, Marvel comics, and also was a Sc-fix movies-goer, how to say, it was in the brink of the ” L’Air-Du-Temps,” as it may appears to some readers a banality nowadays, but it was about to witness at a turning point of time, History on the making, you’re witnessing with eyes wide-open, that marvelous era, at things under your reach. Fifty years later, hystory is made, again and a recommencement of a fairy tale, almost a déjà-vu, the other, in the morning I was gone to get the milk, and the New York Times newspaper  because I have been used to  it, since that time of yore.

And For the anecdotal, because one day,( gone get the milk, )  I went to attend the event of the publication  “Go Set a Watchman”and I end up seeing the movie“calendar/kill-mockingbird-special” at Central  Library-Dweck

_That’s all fictional, and once more  for sure, but reality is, it’s sad today  to lean in the NYTimes, that the author died few days ago, it is like a panel of memories just want of, and my heart went on with the author.  Rest in peace Mocking bird

and I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing…

And I, the while, the sole, unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Broken-heart

_ T'was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way, nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt inside of me something bleed
_ making my day not so bright
_ a surge of tears, an urge to cry, in despair 
_ I had none, something to tell, or to whom to write, 
_ nor to recite, this piece of poetry, nor pair
_ that's when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart torn away, too loose.
_  I encarved our hearts into a trunk of a tree,
_ At the fork of two roads, I lingered as often, 
_ I decided, but to choose that day the one not taken, 
_ I stopped by, at the school of cutting classes,
    where you play hide, and seek, by the bushes
_ where you learnt the tools of the trades, arts and crafts, 
_ those small things of life, state-of-art, of everything,
_ things that people envy you for, gossip about and jibe, 
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did. 
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease, 
_ just because to show off, among friends, and but just to please. 
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass, 
  but then when there is no more of such sweet thing, 
_ of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas 
_ who fancy, to tell me how? It’s all fake
_  you, who knows, where and how to take
_ "and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
_ Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing" 
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_  Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, yes I learnt
_ By the road not always that people took,
_  I went to see the railroads men, and departing train.
_ with pain in my heart, and the day as it mights rain 
_ I will tell you such, and such where the joy 
_ tears, laughter, wounded limbs of a lit’l boy
_  If you please, take pain to listen to me
_ it's a nonsense, you may say
_  then you burst in laughers,
_ and that, also I know, and dare say
_  Oh, my heart, you still remember, do you?
_ When Marie went to draw water from the well
_  She was so pretty and jolly.
_ Then, Fatima, the brunette, oh! Holy molly, 
_ when I took her hand, it was so smooth 
_ ever than a step stone, where we sat,
_  at the threshold of a fountain
_ tearing off petals of daisy flowers, hours, and hours
_  we thought then, nights and days, that the world was ours
_ To please them both, I learnt poetry, De Musset, 
_ Baudelaire, et Rimbaud, Aragon, Hugo and La Fontaine. 
_ Love me, love me not, a love play 
_ Forget me not, Proust, the Swann's way. 
_ à L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs. 
_ But I forgot love it's a leur
_ Cutting classes, The Fridays afternoon 
_ And Sweet Tuesdays, with moon 
_ For the love of a girl’smile
_  you can do anything, like walking  hundred and a mile
_ Many years, later on, I can’t help But still remember now and then 
_ Those were the days, my friend That seemed never end 
_ Please tell me where are they
_ When, eat, love and play 
_ Was a day of not worried

_Kalimelo