Le verger du roi Louis [English translation]

On its long extended branches

the forest where Flora wakes

has strings of hanging people

which the morning caresses and gilds.

This gloomy wood, where the oak displays

clusters of of fruits unheard of

even amongst the Turks and the Moors,

it’s King Louis’ orchard.

All these poor frozen people,

harbouring thoughts that we don’t know,

are twisting, still trembling,

in distraught whirls.

The rising sun consumes them.

Look at them, dazzling skies,

dancing in the fires of dawn.

It’s King Louis’ orchard.

These people hung, heard by the devil,

call some more of the hung.

While in the heavens, stretched out blue,

where a shooting-star seems to glow,

the dew in the air evaporates,

a swarm of joyful birds

pecks over their heads.

It’s king Louis’orchard.

Last words

Prince, there is a wood decorated by

a lot of run-aways buried

in the soft noise of the leaves.

It’s King Louis’ orchard!