The olive trees lower their arms
The grapes get red noses
And the sand has become cold
In the white sun
Serious bathers and seasonal workers
Return to their real jobs
And the manger figurines will be sculpted
Before Christmas
It's in September
When the sailboats are uncovered
And the beach shivers in the shade
Of a pale autumn
It's in September
That we can live for real
In summer my own country
In summer anything goes
The trailers, the gas stoves
The great sham (?)
Swimsuits too small (short), shorts too long
The Dutch and their melons
From Cavaillon (or cantaloupes)
It's in September
When summer puts back on its shoes
And the beach is like a stomach
That no one has touched
It's in September
That my country can breath
Country of my younger years
There where my father is buried
My school was warmed
By the great sun
In the month of May, I go
And leave you to the foreigners
To be a foreigner myself
Under other skies
But in September
When I come back to where I was born
And my beach recognizing me
Opens her arms like a fiancée
It's in September
That I have a good year
It's in September
That I sleep under the olive tree