All language subtitles for Human.Flowers.Of.Flesh.2022.1080p.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-aTroCiTy.ENG.V2

Hi.

Are you coming?

OK.

From Antigua.

A whole beach like the cemetery

of a coral reef.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

He collects some plants
from below the waves

to prepare a soft bed for Medusa's head.

And while he washes his hands
in the seawater...

His bloody hands, do you understand?

The plants below Medusa's head

are still living inside.

At the touch of the head,

their branches harden.

The plants absorb Medusa's blood

and become totally stiff.

And?

They become corals.

Nice.

His aim was...

to experience it

directly.

To write about it afterwards.

I don't know if it was

an ideological decision

to go to the Foreign Legion.

I don't think it was.

And how does he describe the experience?

I remember the boredom,

the heat,

the dust.

Someone...

dies...

of fever.

And is buried in the desert sand.

Everyone is looking

for closeness and other bodies.

It's raw and tender at the same time.

The pink flowers are beautiful.

- They have blossomed nicely this year.
- Yes.

There's a boat in Marseille.

Owned by a woman.

She lives there with her crew.

Who is this woman?

I don't know.

Not much is known about her.

I imagine her life very free.

Always in motion.

Fluid.

It happened on the beach just nearby,

in Maldormé.

There was a kind of encounter.

The guy looked very athletic,

all muscle.

And he kept running into the sea,

crawling out like crazy,

super fast...

Then back to shore.

And back into the sea.

And back to shore and back into the sea.

Everybody looked at him.

It was quite insane.

At some point

he came crouching out of the water...

And he remained lying there.

Then two other guys ran up

to try and pull him out of the water.

But the guy fought back
with his hands, his feet,

and screamed.

He was totally crazy.

He just went back to the water

and remained lying there.

Then someone called the fire brigade

and they took him with them.

They told us he was
a legionnaire from the centre.

Farewell to old Europe

May the devil take you away

Farewell to the old country

For the oh so burning sky of Algeria.

Farewell to memories

Our life is about to end.

We need sunshine,

We need space,

To tan our corpses.

We, the wretched of the earth,

We, the wounded of all wars.

We cannot forget

A misfortune,

A shame,

A woman we adored.

We, who have warm blood in our veins,

Having the blues, sorrow in the hearts,

To gain, to fight,

For heaven's sake,

Fearless on the way for the Legion.

Cheers, comrades

Let's embrace each other.

We shall go, with a backpack,

Guns in hand,

Together we walk the same path.

To us the desert

Is like the sea to the sailor.

We need sunshine,

We need space,

To tan our corpses.

I won't miss mistral, I guess.

It drives me crazy sometimes.

"Personality became a relative and,

to all intents and purposes,
empty notion.

It was worse than military service,

worse even than God himself
could have intended.

Everybody in the town

was reduced to the same
limited vocabulary:

for five days no one said anything but

'I'm thirsty,
it can't go on like this.'"

I'm thirsty.

Which wind was it today?

Southwest. Libeccio.

"He couldn't get used to the idea

of all the ports being closed

and all the ships at a standstill.

In short, as soon as I found him,

I knew I should lose him again.

Frontiers irked him

as prison bars do others,

and that's not just a figure of speech.

Since he'd left the 'Cypris'

he'd been round the world three times.

I pulled his leg about it,

I said that if he went on like that

the world would soon seem
too small for him.

He used to laugh.

He said no,
the littleness of the world

hadn't bothered him too much yet,

and that its roundness delighted him.

He liked the way it was made
because like that,

when you went away from one place,

you necessarily got nearer to another.

And when you had no home,

a round earth was the best kind
you could have."

It's beautiful.

There is no door, no window.
There is nothing.

Only a...

I don't know...

A house of sand.

Afterwards...

A lady who arrives with a plate...

The meat was rotten, a mash, whatever,

and then the guy... with his hands!

He started eating with his hands.

And he doesn't give a fork or a knife
to the captain, but...

he tries...

He has to eat like
the chief of the village.

Like this, the guy might tell
a few more stories.

Can you translate it?

Now in your language again.

"We lean our skin against the sea

Like postmen messengers

Swallows diving in

Crabs' sunned bodies

Unfinished butterflies

Jellyfish on mellow waves

People without place or land."

The poem is written by a woman

that I respect very much.

This will be our next stop.

There you can post the letters.

What kind of atlas is that?

Someone made it for Ida.

She says, she knows it by heart.

Shit!

Blood, sweat, and tears.

Sidi-Bel-Abbès,

once a rectangular fortress
of 42 hectares.

It was surrounded...

by large gardens

and military training areas
to throw grenades.

Legionnaires

managed a farm and cultivated the land.

They wanted to be self-sufficient
in North Africa.

And on the periphery:

Village Nègre

and the Marché Arabe.

The uncivilized ones...

who caused so much trouble.

There was the prostitution quarter,

which was strictly controlled.

The legionnaires

had to return to the barracks
by around 11 pm.

There was also a bakery.

The large percentage of Germans
at the time

had turned the desire for cakes

into a lucrative business.

In other words,

for some, it was

like paradise itself.

Have a seat.

And your troop, where do they come from?

From Portugal,

from Brazil,

from Germany,

from the Czech Republic,

from Algeria,

from Greece.

I'll make some scrambled eggs.

Thanks.

Ah, shit!

You are everywhere.

That's true.

We are everywhere.

When one had wasted all his dosh

Or screwed up, with one dirty hit

His whole career,

One takes his shoes on his back

And goes off in the bottom of a ship

To the legionnaires.

Even priests who without manners

Baptize the good Lord with holy names

For the legionnaires.

We live in the boondocks,

Where there's nothing but jackasses,

Some old wenches.

In France, we would soon
make too much noise,

And the bourgeoisie
is scared of the blues,

Of the legionnaires.