Behind the mountains
With the sorrow that ploughs my fields,
I write songs of longing
So I will not forget your canticle.
Who has made me so distant
When I can feel you all so very close?
Woe to you! The unluckiest of them all... Woe to you!
Behind the mountains
The nightingale is still singing.
It watches its children leave for France
And thus, the leaves from its tree fall in grief.
If thieves have made me poor,
I'm also poor because I don't have your love.
Woe to you! The unluckiest of them all... Woe to you!
Behind the mountains
I'm living the uncertainty of my destiny,
But the path that I open
Shall find you all beyond the evening.
Goodbye, of sister lands:
Sing very loudly, for I want to hear you!
Woe to you! The unluckiest of them all... Woe to you!
We come from the North... We come from the North...