Happy the one who, like Ulysses, made a fine trip
Or like that one who conquered the fleece
And then came back, full of experience and sense
To live among his parents for the rest of his days
When will I see again, alas, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
Season, will I see the yard again?
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
Will I see again the yard of my poor house
That’s a whole province to me and so much more?
I prefer the home my ancestors built
To the daring facades of Roman palaces
The fine slate pleases me more than hard marble
My Gaulish Loir more than the Latin Tiber
My little Liré more than the Palatine Hill
And the Angevin softness more than sea air
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
I crossed the seas with the strength of my arms
Alone against the gods, lost in the tides
Holed up in a hold, my old eardrums pierced
So I’d never hear the sirens and their voices again
Our lives are a war where it’s all up to us
To care about our fates, to pick the right choice
To beware of our steps and all that still water
That pollutes our paths supposedly paved with gold
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
But when will I see again, from my little village
Smoke from the chimney, and in what season?
But when will I see again
But when will I see again
But when will I see again
But when will I see again