Le petit gars - Francis Cabrel

Derrière la rivière du père

On voyait s’agiter la cité

Et faner les fleurs solitaires

Dans les parterres grillagés

Le petit gars là-haut sur sa colline

Venait les contempler en paix…

Ces enfants qui jouent en plein air

Entre la route et la voie ferrée

Ils vont finir par manquer d’air

Ou ils vont s'électrocuter

Le petit gars là-haut sur sa colline

Venait les contempler en paix…

Mais le petit gars ne comprenait rien

Allongé sous les arbres il se trouvait bien

Attendant tranquille la récolte du vin

A quoi servent leurs belles manières

Si leurs mots sont empoisonnés

A quoi servent leurs têtes fières

Puisqu’ils marchent le dos courbé

Le petit gars là-haut sur la colline

Venait les contempler en paix

Mais derrière la rivière du père

On voyait s’agiter la cité

Et tourner les ogres d’affaires

Dans les tours de verre climatisées

Le petit gars là-haut sur la colline

Venait les contempler en paix

Mais le petit gars ne comprenait rien

Allongé sous les arbres il se trouvait bien

Attendant tranquille que cuise son pain

Mais le petit gars ne comprenait rien

Où s’en vont mourir ces pauvres pantins

Allongés sous les arbres ils seraient si bien

Attendant tranquilles que coule le vin

Behind the Father's River

We could see the city bustling

And wither the lonely flowers

In the fenced beds

The little guy up there on his hill

Came to gaze upon them in peace...

Those children who play outdoors

Between the road and the railway

They will end up running out of air

Or they'll get electrocuted

The little guy up there on his hill

Came to gaze upon them in peace...

But the little guy didn't understand anything

Lying under the trees he was fine

Quietly waiting for the harvest of wine

What good are their fine manners

If their words are poisoned

What are their proud heads for

Since they walk with their backs bent

The little guy up there on the hill

Came to gaze upon them in peace

But behind the father's river

We could see the city bustling

And turn business ogres

In air-conditioned glass towers

The little guy up there on the hill

Came to gaze upon them in peace

But the little guy didn't understand anything

Lying under the trees he was fine

Quietly waiting for his bread to bake

But the little guy didn't understand anything

Where are these poor puppets going to die

Lying under the trees they'd be so good

Quietly waiting for the wine to flow