Poème, version chantable, à écouter en musique de Adnane Benchakroun
Pour ceux qui aiment encore lire : Poème de Adnane Benchakroun
I ain't no old man at sea,
No tales of storms or bravery.
No mountain high to call my name,
No cabin fire, no woods to tame.
Ain’t buried deep in dusty books,
No scholar’s stare, no ancient looks.
I'm just a man who's seen the days,
And writes them down in quiet ways.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No saddle, no sail, no flying birds.
No medals, no maps, no holy verse,
Just stories caught in every curse.
I speak in rhythm, not in might—
My heart still hums in the dead of night.
I'm just an old man... and his words.
I got no fields to plow no more,
No kids to swing around the floor.
The world moves fast, I move slow,
Like Gnaoua drums in desert flow.
These boots are cracked, my hands are worn,
But I remember where I was born.
Under stars that knew my name,
Before the world forgot the flame.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No headlines, no likes, no trending blurbs.
No riches, no throne, no pretty blur—
Just whispers in a coffee stir.
I play my silence like a tune,
My soul still dances under the moon.
I'm just an old man... and his words.
(Add guembri + krakebs + slide guitar)
A trance of time, a breath, a sway—
The spirits move in what I say.
My rhythm's not for marching feet,
But for the truth that can’t be beat.
They say the past don’t feed a man,
But I still chew what I can stand.
Memories like dates and sand,
Sweet and rough in every hand.
I ain't the hero of no tale,
No ship, no crown, no holy grail.
But I got verses in my scars,
Like midnight songs beneath the stars.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No kingdom, no sword, no silver herds.
No heaven, no hell, just open chords—
My truth don’t come with no rewards.
But if you stop and lend an ear,
You’ll hear a soul that won’t disappear.
I’m just an old man…
Yeah, just an old man…
Just an old man... and his words.
No tales of storms or bravery.
No mountain high to call my name,
No cabin fire, no woods to tame.
Ain’t buried deep in dusty books,
No scholar’s stare, no ancient looks.
I'm just a man who's seen the days,
And writes them down in quiet ways.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No saddle, no sail, no flying birds.
No medals, no maps, no holy verse,
Just stories caught in every curse.
I speak in rhythm, not in might—
My heart still hums in the dead of night.
I'm just an old man... and his words.
I got no fields to plow no more,
No kids to swing around the floor.
The world moves fast, I move slow,
Like Gnaoua drums in desert flow.
These boots are cracked, my hands are worn,
But I remember where I was born.
Under stars that knew my name,
Before the world forgot the flame.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No headlines, no likes, no trending blurbs.
No riches, no throne, no pretty blur—
Just whispers in a coffee stir.
I play my silence like a tune,
My soul still dances under the moon.
I'm just an old man... and his words.
(Add guembri + krakebs + slide guitar)
A trance of time, a breath, a sway—
The spirits move in what I say.
My rhythm's not for marching feet,
But for the truth that can’t be beat.
They say the past don’t feed a man,
But I still chew what I can stand.
Memories like dates and sand,
Sweet and rough in every hand.
I ain't the hero of no tale,
No ship, no crown, no holy grail.
But I got verses in my scars,
Like midnight songs beneath the stars.
I'm just an old man with his words,
No kingdom, no sword, no silver herds.
No heaven, no hell, just open chords—
My truth don’t come with no rewards.
But if you stop and lend an ear,
You’ll hear a soul that won’t disappear.
I’m just an old man…
Yeah, just an old man…
Just an old man... and his words.
​Ce poème-chanson donne voix à un vieil homme lucide, sans gloire ni illusion, qui ne se reconnaît ni dans les clichés de l’aventurier, ni dans ceux du sage retiré.
Il n’est ni marin, ni montagnard, ni lettré : juste un homme usé par la vie, mais encore debout grâce à ses mots. Ces mots sont sa mémoire, son rythme, sa résistance intime. Sur fond de guitares country et de rythmes gnaoua, il évoque un monde qui va trop vite pour lui, mais qu’il continue à observer et à traduire avec poésie. Il n’a ni trône, ni followers, ni promesses à vendre. Pourtant, sa parole est précieuse, chargée de vécu, de silences et de vérités simples. À travers ce chant humble et puissant, il rappelle que parfois, les plus belles histoires ne viennent pas des héros, mais de ceux qui n’ont que leurs mots pour tenir debout, et les offrir au vent.