I come from where the white sun beats on the windows
Where the vines' green colors your perimeter
Characters soaked in the garrigue ochers
A palette of faces the Aude dispenses
I love diving in and losing myself in that painting
I love dreaming and seeing myself hold the brush
Painting the dark eyes of those whose love overflows
Accents echo under the plane trees and blend there
Weathered faces under caps screwed on tight
Rehashing the past years by an iced anisette
The rusty Estafette by the café, mint water
Where the pink facade wears out under the sirocco
The light dance when the musicians heat the air
Making the world bluer while the hour burns away
While theirs burns away
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip
I come from where the seasons set our rhythm
Where bare brick lets the wisteria climb
Grannies watch from their lavender-blue shutters
And the little kids on stolen bikes sell it to you
The housing estate looms in its maze of grey
The Corbières clay and the Alaric hills
Bodegas bustle with their blood-and-gold flags
There the cups of carmine wine empty with no effort
Old men still wear their bleu de Chine
Brown tobacco sticks out of their thin rolled cigarettes
When thick smoke blends into the azure sky
I can't wait for my retirement in my little shack
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip
Sometimes I sketch in a corner of the page
The faces of the people from my little village
At the bell tower's foot, colors, images
Living far from you is a long trip