Châtillon-sur-Seine [English translation]

I know, it's been a while since I last saw your shores,

The murmur of the stream and the singing of the thrushes

In Châtillon-sur-Seine when we left, Nelly,

Just like two driven out birds coming back to their nest,

Both furtively walking on the snow-covered ground

You taught me the words and the names of birds

The province was beautiful, we walked our suffering

Here I am, back in the lands of my childhood

Coming back to my memory in the sadness of winter,

You, the boat girl, the military man daughter

From that dead era when people could read

Yes, you, the literary person who taught me to write

You, who welcomed me to your table with open arms

You, who tucked me in at night, telling me stories

You who, I remember, knew the nature

Of the land's fruits, you, who made marmelade

Me, I would have so much to tell you,

That you saved my life,

You, the heart's apostle

You, Rimbaud's daughter

Me, I would have so much to tell you,

That you saved my life,

You, the heart's apostle,

Flaubert's and Hugo's

I know, it's been a while since I last saw your shores,

You, who played by heart just like a drifting sob

In Châtillon-sur-Seine when you went, Bruno,

Yes, rehearsing your sorrows, yes, along the stream

Until the plains were singing the bassoon's sobs

You, who taught jazz music to the sons of Châtillon,

Who put some Brooklyn into the countryman's heart

You, whose only master was the swing of time

You, who gave your life in the deep countryside,

Sharing your knowledge, your friend, with those souls

Whose only master are those rotten belongings

To dumb down the working class, to take his money

With the closed factories, the queen cupidity,

The deserted cafés, the plains of the landscape

A little country town by a stream of the Seine,

Where lived two friends by the stream of my life

Me, I would have so much to tell you all

And if Châtillon cries

On the bodies of my friends,

Yes, flowerless springtimes

Me, I would have so much to tell you all

And let Châtillon cry

On your body, my friend,

Yes, the song of misfortune

If the bassoon's wind no longer rings at daybreak

In Châtillon-sur-Seine, then Bruno has passed away

If the deer still bellows, if the blackbird sings on,

It's to ring up, my friend, your memory at springtime

Nelly, she left on another journey

Bruno, he ran off for one last solo

As for us, in hell, us, the wingless birds

Under the stones of cemeteries

Of dormant centuries

If our dreams are dead, if cynicism is king,

If the great winners are ignorance and faith,

Know that although here, yes, money always wins,

The heart's wealth is not the savings, oh no

The wealth, it's the sound of your damned bassoon being

Led to the grave, resounding on the rooftops of this world

In Châtillon-sur-Seine, it's dreaming of the best,

It's Nelly and Bruno making my heart sing

When we walked along the stream

To listen to the song of its sobbing

In Châtillon-sur-Seine, to see some boats there

Drunk on solitude, you taught me some Rimbaud

When we walked along the stream

To listen to Châtillon's sobbing

Telling me again 'Oh yes, those boats'

I think back on Nelly, I think back on Bruno

When we walked along the stream

To listen to the song of its sobbing

In Châtillon-sur-Seine, me, I see some boats

I think back on Nelly, I think back on Bruno