In those days…
“En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui.”
“In those days, life was more beautiful,
and the sun burned more fiercely than it does today.”
(Yves Montand, “Les feuilles mortes”
lyrics by Jacques Prévert,
music by Joseph Kosma)
There was a time — not merely another era, but a different way of inhabiting the world.
Life did not rush. It did not shout. It spoke softly.
It felt lighter, more carefree — like a summer that refused to end.
The days passed slowly, deeply,
bathed in a sun that warmed not only the air, but also the heart.
A different kind of warmth — not one that oppressed, but one that accompanied.
A gentle flame, almost intimate, that caressed the soul and made it dance.
Perhaps we were younger — not only in age, but in the openness with which we welcomed each day.
A glance could hold a promise.
A morning felt like a beginning.
We spoke less, but truly listened.
We walked slowly, yet with full steps.
We asked for little — and that little was enough to make the world vast.
Bread had more flavour.
Sundays held more silence.
Was it really better?
Or is it just memory, with its forgiving brush, painting everything in gold and sunlight?
Perhaps.
But now, even though the days are longer, the light feels thinner.
And though we have everything, something luminous is often missing.
Time flows on — but something in us has forgotten how to feel it.
So we look back.
Not to escape, but to remember what it meant to be touched by a fleeting moment.
When the sun could still burn,
and life was not merely lived — it was felt.
“Les Feuilles mortes” is not merely a song or a poem.
It is an elegy to the autumn of life — a whisper in which love, memory, and time intertwine like leaves carried away by the wind.
And in that wind, something lingers.
A faint echo we are not ready to let go.
Because even if everything passes,
some moments are worth holding on to.