I am still cycling with Jacques Brel every morning and still with the same CD Infiniment (not that it really makes much difference which CD of Brel one gets, they all seem to be different mixes of the same songs with just an infuriating addition or two of a song new to me, with just three CDs I now have three versions of some songs!)

There are a few lines of great beauty which he has written which I feel I must share.
I will add a (rough) translation.

From L’Amour est Mort
His lament for a relationship where love has died

Le piano n’est plus qu’un meuble
La cuisine pleure quelques sandwiches

Now the piano is just furniture
And only sandwiches come from the kitchen

And

Elle a oublie qu’elle chantait
Il a oublie qu’elle chantait

She has forgotten that she used to sing
He has forgotten that she used to sing

From Le Plat Pays
His love song to his native Belgium

Avec des cathedrales pour uniques montagnes
Et de noires clochers comme mats de cocagne
Ou les diables en pierre decrochent les nouages
Avec le fil des jours pour unique voyage
Et des chemins de pluie pour unique bonsoir
Avec le vent d’ouest ecoutez- le vouloir
Le plat pays qui est le mien

Where cathedrals are the only mountains
And their black spires are like phantom masts
Where the stone devils break through the fogs
But the passing days are all that pass
And the rivers of rain bring down the night
And then the west wind steals in like a thief
In the flatlands which are my own.

From Les Vieux
His gentle evocation of old age

Les vieux ne revent plus, leurs livres s’ensommeillent, leur pianos sont fermes
Le petit chat est mort, le muscat du Dimanche ne les fait plus chanter

Old people no longer dream, their books send them to sleep, their pianos are now closed
Their little cat is dead and Sundays glass of wine no longer makes them sing.

And finally from Les Marquises
Another love song to a place, this time to the Marquesas Islands where he lived for some time, and is buried.

Et s’il n’y a pas d’hiver
Cela n’est pas l’ete

And where there is no winter
Neither is there summer

What lovely lines.
I warn you there will be more.