The greatest tragedy is not death, but forgetting one's mother tongue.
最大的悲剧不是死亡，而是遗忘母语。
A people without poetry is like a night without stars.
没有诗歌的民族如同没有星星的夜晚。
The mistral may howl, but the olive tree bends without breaking.
密史脱拉风或许会呼啸，但橄榄树弯曲却不会折断。
Every flower in Provence knows my name, and I know the secret of each petal.
普罗旺斯的每朵花都知道我的名字，而我知道每片花瓣的秘密。
The true poem is written not with ink but with blood.
真正的诗篇不是用墨水而是用鲜血写就的。
To sing of one's land is to love it twice.
歌颂自己的土地等于爱它两次。
The Provençal language is not dead; it sleeps in the hearts of the people, waiting to be awakened.
普罗旺斯语没有消亡；它沉睡在人们心中，等待被唤醒。
A poet must be like a tree, rooted in his native soil, drawing nourishment from it to bear fruit.
诗人必须像一棵树，扎根于故土，从中汲取养分才能结出果实。
Love is the only thing that can fill the eternal emptiness of the human heart.
爱是唯一能填补人类心灵永恒空虚的东西。
The sun, the sea, the wind—these are the eternal poets.
太阳、大海、风——这些是永恒的诗人。