Резултати претраге страна 15

Paris

Paris,
they sung every possible tune about you.
There are so many words in your songs
that speak of wat, of what precisely?
Paris,
Paris,
As for me, it's your eyes, your skin
I want to kiss real properly,
just like the gigolos know how to.
 
Paris,
the sun has put its pyjamas on,
as you light up and in your alluring downtown1
Mister Haussmann2 is hitting on you.
Paris,
come and love me like in the old times,
especially at night, as we
walked together toward an unknown goal.
 
Paris,
some street names are easily forgotten,
and in such streets, after midnight,
you showed me your little Paris.
Paris,
as you sobbed in your horn blasts,
a girl lost among men,
you came to me like a mere little girl3
 
Paris,
tonight I feel like dancing,
dancing with your cobblestones
everyone looks at with their feet.
Paris,
youre so pretty under the lantern lights,
as you take your seasonal vacations
in the arms of an accordion.
 
Paris,
as you dress up with blue,
it makes lovers go out,
saying 'in Paris together'.
Paris,
as you dress up with grey,
the tailors have only one concern,
that's to dress up all the chicks4 in grey.
 
Paris,
as you get bored you stroll down the quays,
stroll down the Seine and its drowned men.
It brings soe fresh air and that's entertaining.
Paris,
people talk an afwul lot about you,
yet they don't know who you are.
They live at your place but never actually meet you.
 
Paris,
if you could smile, I'd have your charm
If you could cry, I'd have your tears.
If someone hit you, I't take up arms.
Paris
You're more than just a thrill to me,
more than an idea, a girl just worth writing songs about,
and that's why I call out your name,
Paris, Paris, Paris, Paris...
 

• 1. 'bas' can mean 'downtown' but also 'stockings'
• 2. an architect responsible for a massive renovation of Paris in the 19th century, notably opening the great boulevards at the cost of demolishing quite a few old houses. 'faire du plat'means 'hitting on [some girl], but 'mettre à plat' evokes razing houses too
• 3. 'la môme' was also the nickname of Edith Piaf
• 4. lit. 'mice'

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

It's raining it's raining

Outside my window
It's raining, raining, raining
and I keep waiting for you
to appear from around the corner
 
Rivers are flowing outside
And it's raining, raining,raining
I cry behind my window
the sky cries with me
 
Who knows where she is
really, where could she be
now that I have such need
of her sweet company
 
Summer passed
and a storm separated us
and I have rain in my eyes
and an overcast heart
 
Outside of my window
It's raining, raining raining
I cry for my lost dream
along with the rain
 
Black are the sky's depths
and it keeps raining raining raining
and my sorrowful soul keeps raining with out tears
 

I need that love

at night, in my bedroom, alone
I look at the stars
looking for you, but you're not there
my heart rushes
my mind wanders
Why don't you como to love me?
why is this love never here?
it's always there, away from me
why does this love make me suffer?
and far from you I no longer can live
come, end this yearning
I'm dying to see you
I'm mad for you
come, and bring happiness
I need that love
howsoever
 

The Feminine Eternal

If my appearance tells you anything
You'd be wrong to get in the way
I don't do it to be a model
I am woman, I am known
 
Flat banners or crazy manes of hair
Say, what forehead drives you crazy?
I have the art of every school
I have souls for all tastes
Pick the flower of my faces
Drink my mouth and not my voice
And don't look for anything more
Nobody saw it clearly, not even me
 
Our weapons are not equal
So that I hold your hand
You are just naive men
I am the feminine eternal!
 
My goal is lost in the stars
It's me who's the great Isis
Nobody removed my veil
Only think of my oases
Pick the flower of my faces
Drink my mouth and not my voice
And don't look for anything more
I am woman, I am known!
 

It's Too Late

Fragrances of May, perfume of sulfur
Uncertain dreams where one delves into
So many yellowing pictures
So many words, so many cries
All these silent faces
These hazy calls from the emptiness
Rising in fever so many nights
Where our chimeras came to battle
I smiled, me, the worrying one
Beneath so much hope, innocent
 
Fragrances of Summer, perfume of rage
The eye too bright under the makeup
In the harmful neon lights
Beating heart, bitter mouth
To want so much to mask one's fear
To always be hunting happiness
Upright, stood in the light
Heavy eyelids, light soul
I murmured, me, the glorious one
Beneath so much powerlessness, fearful
 
Fragrances of Autumn, perfume of melancholy
Hidden shadows where these pale silhouettes
Take shape
Incarnations of evil
When just the flame of a silly hope
Dances in their gaze
Weary from being so little understood
Broken from being so unsuccessful
I kept quiet, me, the arrogant one
Beneath so much hatred, unsteady
 
Fragrances of Winter, perfume of mourning
The wind's caress on the leaves
From so many days gone by
From so many withered loves
Another movement to catch
Just the shadow of a memory
Another word, just a smile
A final breath to tell you
But what use is it? It's too late...
A child cries, somewhere
 

Song to the Auvergnat

This song is your's
You the Auvergnat that, without fuss
GIved me four wood's pieces
When my life was feeling cold
 
You that give me fire when
the 'croquantes' and 'croquants' *
all this people well intentionned
slammed their doors on my face
 
that was nothing much than a wood fire
but it had heated my body
And in my soul its burning again
As a bonfire
 
you, the Auvergnat, when you'll died
When the undertaker will take you away
that he drives you, through the sky
To the Eternal Father
 
This song is your's
You the host that, without fuss
Gived me four bread's pieces
When my life was feeling hungry
 
you, that opened your bread box when
the croquantes and croquants
All this people well intetionned
they laughed seeing me fasting ( do not eat)
 
That was nothing more than a few bred pieces
But it had heated my body
And in my soul its burning again
As a great feast
 
you, the host, when you'll died
When the undertaker will take you away
that he drives you, through the sky
To the Eternal Father
 
This song is your's
You the stranger that, without fuss
Looking miserable you smiled me
When policeman caugh me
 
You, that didn't applaused when
the croquantes and the croquants
All this people well intentionned
Laughed seeing then taking me away
 
That was nothing more than sweetness (honey)
But te heated my body
and in my soul its burning again
As a great sun
 
you, the stranger, when you'll died
When the undertaker will take you away
that he drives you, through the sky
To the Eternal Father
 

Dead Leaves

Oh! How much I would like you to remember
Those happy days when we were friends
Life was more beautiful back then,
And the sun warmer than today
 
Dead leaves are picked up by the shovel load,
You see, I didn't forget...
Dead leaves are picked up by the shovel load,
Memories and regrets as well
 
And the northern wind blows them away
In the cold night of oblivion
You see, I didn't forget
The song you used to sing to me...
 
It's a song that looks like us,
You loved me, I loved you
And we both lived happily together,
You loving me, me loving you
 
But life pulls apart those who are in love,
Very softly, without a noise
And the sea erases, in the sand,
The footsteps of seperated lovers
 

Glasses

Versions: #2
A pair of glasses
On a pillow
That's all I have left
From a very dear friend
A pair of glasses
Forgotten yesterday
By a cobra
My friend in the flesh
 
Cobra
Rattlesnake
Why did you leave me
Your glasses?
 
This pair of glasses
That cost a lot
Who even knows how many pesetas1?
What a bitter price
This pair of glasses
Moon or sea
You put them on your head
To see clearer
 
Cobra
Rattlesnake
Why did you leave me
Your glasses?
 
This pair of glasses
This glass mask
Hid me a thousand words of nonsense
A thousand dashes of hell
'Cause the coquette snake
On a winter night
Slid his perverse rings
Into my bunk
 
Cobra
Rattlesnake
Why did you leave me
Your glasses?
 
When the pair of glasses
Wanted to embrace me
I rang the doorbell
And the green devil
Got scared away
Completely nude like a worm
Abandoned his glasses
On my open bed
 
Cobra
Rattlesnake
Why did you leave me
Your glasses?
Cobra
Rattlesnake
Since, I no longer have
A head nor a tail!
 

• 1. Spain's old currency

Si vous voyez une erreur, dites-moi svp.
N'hésitez pas à utiliser mes traductions où vous voulez si vous pensez qu'elles sont assez bien :)
If you see an error, please tell me.
Feel free to use my translations wherever you want to if you think that they're good enough :)

It's Hard to Believe

It's hard to believe that you don't love me anymore
From that fire-like love, not even the ashes are left
 
That afternoon an unfeeling wind blew,
Carrying away our dreams to a world of loneliness
 
The moon was ours, the sun, and the road
And the passionate kiss, watery with the morning dew
 
It's hard to believe that you don't love me anymore
From that fire-like love, not even the ashes are left
 
I remember the nights of spring time
When heaven's honey would sweeten our sadness
 
We swore to love one another, and we were sincere
Together forever, words gone with the wind
 
Everything is over, a story has ended
On their journey toward oblivion, our memories drift away
 
It's hard to believe that you don't love me anymore
From that fire-like love, not even the ashes are left
 

Without Loving You

Without loving you,
Without ever being able to,
I will go ahead and forget this summer
You and the summer,
Gone forever,
My memories of them will soon be erased
 
[Chorus]
What you said about the sun,
What you said about the night
Come back to me, muffled,
And makes autumn smile
Always, always,
I love only you
Take me, take me,
Take me into your arms
I love only you,
Don't leave me
 
Without loving you,
I am lonely and disappointed
You loved me, and summer was burning me
In the alley
Where winter, having come back,
Makes me regret every one of these burns
 
[Chorus]
 
Without loving you,
I never believed a single one
Of these words, of your slow kisses
And if your heart had ever wanted it,
Forget, forget all about this summer
 
[Chorus]
 

On A Summer Day

I met a man on the shore
On a summer day
He asked me to go boating with me,
I refused
 
He had a funny features, a turned-up nose
And blue eyes
He came and sat next to me on the beach
On a summer day
He asked if he could stroke my face,
I refused
 
He was sunburned, had sand between his toes
And blue eyes
He lengthily watches the sea
On a summer day
Then says, 'Come, I'm offering you a drink',
I refused
 
He didn't look well, had nicotine-stained fingers
And blue eyes
He tells me, 'I just strangled my wife'
On a summer day
'Come with me to the crime scene',
I refused
 
He wore a straw hat, had a medal around his neck
And blue eyes
He says, 'You could save my life'
On a summer day
'Please come swim with me',
I refused
 
He had nervous hands, a cheap ring
And blue eyes
I thought to myself, 'He's delirious''
On a summer day
And blue eyes
I thought to myself, 'He's delirious'
On a summer day
 
He stood up and walked into the waves
Without looking back
He disappeared into the foam, no longer could I see his suit
Or his blue eyes
 

The sweet local joint

The sweet local joint
blooming under the branches1
is full of people
every Sunday.
 
The maid is a brunette.
There's so many happy people.
To each their own,
boys and girls are as one.
 
Lovers infatuated with themselves,
we sure do love one another
and we're tipsy too.
 
It sure should last long enough
for Jeanne and Pierre
to have no regrets.
 

• 1. alludes to the small bistrots near Paris on the Seine or Marne rivers where people used to eat, drink and dance in the late 19th century, which have inspired numerous impressionist painters

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

Times gone by

In over-complex calculations
twenty years, thats a lot of happiness.
My 20 years ended up in the war
on the far side of the field of honour.
If I've known a rotten time, certainly,
it was indeed the time I was twenty!
Nevertheless I mourn its loss,
it's lost and gone so it was the good time.
 
The time gone by is always nice.
Once they've all died1,
we forgive everyone who has offended us,
the dead are all good guys.
 
In your little memory like a sieve2
Bécassine3, you still have the memory
of our wry-mouthed love affair,
love that was null and void,
halfpenny love that certainly didn't go
any further at all than the end of the bed.
Neverthless, we mourn its loss,
it's lost and gone it's grown more attractive.
 
The time gone by is always nice.
Once they've all died1,
we forgive everyone who has offended us,
the dead are all good guys.
 
I've put on my darkest outfit
and my funereal face
to send off a bundle of old bones
to the kingdom of the shades.
The world has certainly never produced
a nastier piece of work.
Nevertheless, we mourn her loss,
she has died, she's been embalmed.
 
The time gone by is always nice.
Once they've all died1,
we forgive everyone who has offended us,
the dead are all good guys.
 

• literally: broken their pipes
• 2. lit: hare's memory
• 3. a character in an early 20th centuy comic strip, an often blundering female

Translations in this website are protected by copyright law. Copying and publishing on other websites or in other media, even with the source link, is normally not allowed without a written permission of the author. But my translations can be published, except for commercial purposes, anywhere provided that my name is cited as translator - subject of course to the rights of the author of the original (untranslated) lyrics being fully observed.

Six Soldiers

Three soldiers hidden
In the light grass
Three soldiers lying down
On a battlefield
Whilst all around
The silence stretches out
Dreaming about luck
Dreaming about love
The grass is soft
The sun is gentle
Our flag lies sleeping
Amongst the cornflowers
The bird is singing
Let's not frighten it
 
On the other side
Three soldiers likewise
Think of summer
Of all that they love
They're dreaming too
When moments of silence come
Dreaming about luck
Dreaming about life
The grass is soft
The sunlight in full bloom
The poppy is our colour
The air is calm
Let's not disturb it
 
The papers will cry out
To the people who wander
'All calm on the front
The assault is being prepared'
But the six soldiers
On their rustic bed
They'll say perhaps
As they cross their arms
'You, Gentlemen of the Headquarters
If your heart is in it
You can attack it hard
Us, we're staying put
We're too comfortable'
 

I feel good

And I no longer love anyone
And nobody loves me anymore.
Nobody awaits me anywhere,
I await nothing but fate.
I feel good.
Outside, the night wraps itself
all around its North Star1.
In the distance, a crowd is cooing,
with more meanness than rudeness.
I feel good...
 
I dream up gardens
laden with grey roses.
I burn down a few churches,
I boil off a few perfumes.
I feel good...
I flip through my former lovers2,
mixing up their first names.
Funny thing, the family name of all these volcanoes
I extinguished is always Smith3.
I feel good...
 
I swim up the river of
that great bed that encloses me4.
A diamond tinkles merrily
deep inside my glass.
A tree is growing inside my heart,
I'm going to hang all the fusspots there,
and I will no longer be surnumerary5,
and I will feel good...
 
I recall insults
and old enemies, and it no longer
bothers me either way.
Would I be growing up?
That would be good.
I hear nothing but my heart of stone.
Tonight I won't party6
nor act the beauty7 nor the beast.
I don't even care bout my wrinkles.
I feel good
and I switch the light off.
I feel good.
I'm not being honest...
 

• 1. probably a pun on 'polaire' also meaning 'fleece jacket', though the night wrapping itself 'around' a jacket does not work terribly well, in my opinion
• 2. It's about male lovers, which tends to indicate the song was meant to be sung by a woman in the first place (LGBT concerns were still in a distant future when this was written).
• 3. 'Dupont' is the emblematic common French family name, though the most widespread is actually 'Martin'
• 4. Brel invents the verb 'vestibuler' from 'vestibule', which usually means 'entrance hall' but also 'vestibule' (a cavity inside the body) in medical terms. The image of the bed as a cavity enclosing the singer seems more likely to me, but that's debatable
• 5. that's a word Brel has used a lot in this particular album. Might be the symbol of a dying man feeling already out of place among the living
• 6. plays on two different meanings of 'faire': 'faire la fête'(party) and 'faire la belle ou la bête'(act the beauty or the beast), while reffering to the tale 'la belle et la bête' ('Beauty and the Beast)
• 7. again 'la belle' is meant for a female singer

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

I'm coming

From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
our friendships are on their way out.
From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
death puts1 our sweethearts to the gallows.
From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
the other flowers do what they can.
From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
men are crying, women are raining down.
 
I'm coming, I'm coming,
still I would have liked so much
to drag my weary bones once more
into sunlight, into summer,
until spring, until tomorrow.
I'm coming, I'm coming
still I would have liked so much
to see once more if the river
is still a river and the port
is still a port, and see me there once more.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
but why me, why now,
why was that about, and where to go?
 
I'm coming, of course, I'm coming,
did I ever do anything else?
 
From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
each time more lonely.
From chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum,
each time supernumerary2
I'm coming, I'm coming,
still I would have liked so much
to catch a love once more
like you catch a train to stop being lonely,
to be some place else, to feel good.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
still I would have liked so much
fill onece more with stars
a body that trembles, and drop dead,
consumed by love, my heart in ashes.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
you're not even early,
I'm the one being late.
I'm coming, of course, I'm coming,
did I ever do anything else?
 

• 1. though 'potence' means 'gallows', there is no such verb as 'potencer' (that would be 'pendre' (hang) in standard French)
• 2. the word is rather unusual in French too

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

The day

The day leaves the sky
But you said my days
The sea falls asleep on the sand
Your heart falls asleep on my heart
 
Tomorrow the dawn charms
Even rage in your pale eyes
Your hand resting on my neck
Will arise the sun
 
Tonight pays his long melancholy
Where the noise rises, there we make the night fly
Ah! I have only you and you have only me
And you will lose us when you forget it
 
There ! Doing without you or shadows without joy
Neither the hard sun will teach me
I love you that I die of sweetness
When you kissed me
But that I would die for real
If your love ever left me
 
The day leaves the sky
But you said my days
The sea falls asleep on the sand
Your heart falls asleep on my heart
 
•Translation done by Stavroula Chaloulakou

->Every comment concerning the improvement of my translations is always accepted.

It felt good (the lonely ball)

Versions: #2
It was just after the war
in a little ball that had seen better days,
on a miserable dance floor.
There were these two who danced
under the sky among rubble,
in this little ball that was called...
that was called... that was called...
 
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I do remember these two lovers
who saw nothing around them.
Their gestures were so
care free and full of emotion
that it does not matter
how the ball was called.
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I remember they were happy,
lost in each other's eyes,
and it felt good. It felt good.
 
They drank from the same glass,
eyes still locked together.
They prayed for the same thing,
being happy for ever and ever.
They smiled among the rubble
in this little ball that was called...
that was called... that was called...
 
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I do remember these two lovers
who saw nothing around them.
Their gestures were so
care free and full of emotion
that it does not matter
how the ball was called.
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I remember they were happy,
lost in each other's eyes,
and it felt good. It felt good.
 
And then when the accordion
stopped playing, they went away.
Night was falling upon the dancefloor,
the rubble and my very life.
It looked all forlorn again,
this little ball that was called...
that was called... that was called...
 
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I remember these two lovers
who saw nothing around them.
The street was so alight
with these two,
so what does it matter
how the ball was called?
No, I can't recall the name of the lonely ball,
but I do remember we were happy,
lost in each other's eyes,
and it felt good. It felt good.
 
Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

The Ant

An ant of eighteen metres
With a hat on his head
That doesn’t exist, that doesn’t exist
 
An ant trailing a chariot*
Full of penguins and ducks
That doesn’t exist, that doesn’t exist
 
An an speaking French
Speaking Latin and Javanese
That doesn’t exist, that doesn’t exist
 
And why, why not?
 

There is no everafter left

Now that you live
at the other end of Paris,
when you want a change of era
you indulge in a long trip,
you come and meet me
around the Dufour street corner,
you come and visit me
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés1
 
There is no everafter left
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
no day after tomorrow, no more afternoon,
there is just today.
When I'll see you again
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés
it will no longer be you,
it will no longer be me:
the old days are gone.
 
You say 'How everything changes!'
 
The streets look strange to you,
even the flat whites
no longer taste the way you like them.
It is because you are a different woman
and I a a different man.
We are strangers
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
 
There is no everafter left
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
no day after tomorrow, no more afternoon,
there is just today.
When I'll see you again
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés
it will no longer be you,
it will no longer be me:
the old days are gone.
 
Living from hand to mouth,
the merest love story
would seem everlasting
in these back alleys.
But as night came
it was soon over.
This is the eternity
of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
 
There is no everafter left
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
no day after tomorrow, no more afternoon,
there is just today.
When I'll see you again
in Saint-Germain-des-Prés
it will no longer be you,
it will no longer be me:
the old days are gone.
 

• 1. the gathering spot of the famous 'quartier latin' intelligentsia of artists and intellectuals in the 50's, that went suddently out of fashion in the 60's

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

Chandannagar

She had, she had
a first-rate Chandannagar.
She had, she had
a well-built Chandannagar.
Only for me, only for me
did she unveil her cashmere,
her gardens, her wealthy neigbourhood,
and her Chandannagar at last.
In these circumstances,
no way I would have
left the Indian trading posts.
 
She had, she had
two plentiful Yanams.
She had, she had
two fresh and round Yanams,
and only I, and only I
ventured into her bush,
her wold, her vales,
her hills of Yanam.
In these circumstances,
no way I would have
left the Indian trading posts.
 
She had, she had
an awkward Karaikal.
She had, she had
a moody Karaikal.
Still at night I reached
her nirvāṇa regularily,
all this despite
her bloody Karaikal.
In these circumstances,
no way I would have
left the Indian trading posts.
 
She had, she had
a small and frail Mahé.
She had, she had,
a small and hidden Mahé,
but I had to quench
my fires in the monsoon,
and rouse, rouse myself from
the delights of Mahé.
In these circumstances,
no way I would have
lingered in the Indian trading posts.
 
She had, she had
an easy Pondicherry.
She had, she had
a welcoming Pondicherry.
She soon, she soon
showed a new tourist
around her trading post,
her flora and her geography.
In these circumstances,
no way I'll see again
the Indian trading posts.
 
Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

In your crystal bed

You are reading 'the Flowers of Evil'
as you await the male
that will carry your sweet sixteen away
in your satin bed.
Only in the early hours
will he let go of your hand.
He, your first lover,
will abandon you
in your dull, cold bed
to seek other preys,
other flowers to rape.
You won't forget him.
There will always remain
a place in your heart
where his eyes are engraved.
You are reading 'the Flowers of Evil'
and you could not care less
about my love for you.
In your satin bed,
you dream of this kid
who said this morning:
'I wrote a poem for you'.
In your velvet bed,
you say loving words to yourself
waiting for the day to come.
Tomorrow you'll meet him.
Him you will listen to,
and him you will believe.
You will take his arm,
maybe even in front of me,
my pretty flower of Evil,
my horizontal dream1.
You're falling asleep now,
and I gently cover you up
and switch the light off.
You're so far away already,
in your child dreams,
in your satin bed.
You're setting off for tomorrow,
without even a wave of the hand.
You just smile,
like a nice warm weather.2
I lock the door.
Sleep tight, and above all,
above all, dream about him.
 

• 1. 'horizontal' as in 'lying in bed'. Not sure the English carries the same lustful allusion
• 2. this can also be read as part of the next sentence: 'the weather is so nice, so I lock the door', or a standalone 'the wheater is so nice!'

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

The anti-Ecclesiastes (nothing is vanity)

Neither good nor bad weather
nor the scents of the ocean
nor the wind on a wheat field,
nothing is vanity.
Neither the warm skin of a lover
nor the glint of the setting sun
nor the touch of fresh wine,
nothing is vanity (x2)
 
Neither the secrets of the skies
nor the unruly atoms
nor the saffrons in the meadows1,
nothing is vanity.
Neitheir the anxiety of a child
nor the smile of a passer-by
nor the smell of a stranger,
nothing is vanity (x2)
 
Neither the whisper nor the song,
nor the old mistery of time,
nor the rest nor the danger,
nothing is vanity.
Neither the fear of the last moment
nor the appeal of nothingness,
nor the love of eternity,
nothing is vanity.
 
Nothing, but the adverted gaze,
arrogance and cruelty,
and the bitter jadedness,
nothing is vanity.
Nothing, but the death of beauty,
and the theft of truth,
and hate and vanity,
nothing is vanity (x2)
 

• 1. '' is a folksong evokative of late summer nostalgia that was very popular in the 50's

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

No More Questions Remain, And For Words There's No Need...

No more questions remain, and for words there's no need,
I am rushing to you, like a stream to the sea,
Dear image I seek - without thoughts, without doubts,
I know only one thing - I am madly in love.
 
In the dawn's scarlet glow I but you recognize,
It's your smile that I see in the shine of the skies,
When without you I am predestined to die,
As bright star above you I will burn in the sky.
 
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Regained Neighborhood

No one saw the beauty of the streets
until frightful and crying
the greenish sky collapsed
in a melancholy of water and of shadow.
The hurricane was unanimous
and the world was abhorrent to the looks,
but when an arch blessed
with the colors of the forgiveness of the evening
and a smell of wet soil
encouraged the gardens,
we set off to walk through the streets
as if with a regained domain,
and there were generosities of sunshine on the crystals
and on the bright leaves
the summer spoke its tremulous inmortality.