Que reste-t-il de nos amours ? [English translation]

Tonight, the wind knocking at my door

speaks to me of past loves

before the dying fire

tonight, an autumn song

quavers through the house

and I think of those bygone days

refrain:

What remains of our loves?

What of those fine days of yore?

A photo, an old photo, of my youth.

What remains of the love letters

the months of April, the rendez-vous?

A memory that pursues me without fail

a shadow of happiness, windblown hair

stolen kisses, moving dreams

what remains of all these things

do tell me?

a little village, an old bell tower

fields and meadows, well tucked away

and in a cloud, the cherished face

of my past days.

The words, the tender words that are murmured

the caresses purest of the pure

the vows exchanged deep in the woods

the flowers one finds among the pages of a book

whose perfume quakes and stirs

have all blown away, oh why?