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My youth's going to pieces

My youth's going to pieces
all along an entire poem
And from one rhyme to the next
It idly drifts away.
My youth's going to pot
By the defunct fountain
And the cutters of wickers
Are harvesting my twenty years.
 
We'll go no more to the woods
The poet's song,
The twopenny tune,
The lines of a popular refrain
That we used to sing while dreaming
About the girls from the party
I've forgotten about it, even its name
I've forgotten about it, even its name.
 
We'll go to no more to the woods
My tender violet
Today the rain falls
that will erase our footsteps.
Anyway, the children have
Their heads full of the1 songs
But I don't know them
But I don't know them.
 
My youth's going to pieces
To a guitar tune
It's getting out of me
In silence, by slow steps.
My youth's going to pieces
It's broken loose from its mooring,
In its hair it has
The flowers of my twenty years.
 
We'll go no more to the woods
Look, the autumn's coming
I'll wait for the spring
While picking all my worries to bits.
It won't come back any more,
And if my heart trembles
It's because night is falling,
It's because night is falling
 
We'll go no more to the woods
We'll go mo more together
My youth's going to pieces
To the rhythm of your footsteps,
Even so, if you knew
How much like you it looks...
But you don't know that,
But you don't know that.
 
  • 1. full of the songs we used to know, not full of some songs, don't care which
Testi originali

Ma jeunesse fout l'camp

Clicca per vedere il testo originale (Francese)

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