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