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

What is left of our loves?

What is left of those beautiful days?

A photograph—old photograph from my youth.

What is left of sweet letters,

of the months of April, of rendezvous?

A memory that pursues me relentlessly.

Faded happiness, hair blowing in the wind,

stolen kisses, emotional dreams.

What is left of all that?

Tell me.

A small village, an old steeple,

a landscape so well hidden,

and in a cloud a dear face

from my past.

Tonight, the wind that rattles my door

speaks to me about dead loves.

In front of a fire that is about to go out,

tonight is a song of the autumn

in a house that shudders

and I ruminate on days long gone.

What is left of our loves?

What is left of those beautiful days?

A photograph—old photograph from my youth.

What is left of sweet letters,

of the months of April, of rendezvous?

A memory that pursues me relentlessly.

Faded happiness, hair blowing in the wind,

stolen kisses, emotional dreams.

What is left of all that?

Tell me.

A small village, an old steeple,

a landscape so well hidden,

and in a cloud a dear face

from my past.