Les touristes partis - Jean Ferrat

Les touristes, touristes partis, le village petit petit

Retrouve face lui-mme, sa vrit, ses problmes

Les touristes, touristes partis

La vie semble marquer la pose, les belles n’iront plus au bois

Je vous aime mtamorphoses des saisons vertes aux abois

De champignons et de chtaignes, de terre et de gents mouills

Le coin des chemines s’imprgne du parfum des longues veilles

Les touristes, touristes partis, le village petit petit

Retrouve face lui-mme, sa vrit, ses problmes

Les touristes, touristes partis

Les vieux se chauffent en silence sur cette place sans un bruit

Un soleil ple de faence sur leurs paules s’assoupit

On parle de pche et de chasse, on joue aux ds ou aux tarots

Les enfants montent d’une classe, les femmes changent de tricot

Les touristes, touristes partis, le village petit petit

Retrouve face lui-mme, sa vrit, ses problmes

Les touristes, touristes partis

Les rivalits de clocher en de secrets conciliabules

Le long des ruelles caches couvent au feu du crpuscule

Ici nul n’oublie jamais rien ni ce que fut votre grand-pre

Ni ce que vous faisiez gamin quand vous alliez la rivire

Les touristes, touristes partis, le village petit petit

Retrouve face lui-mme, sa vrit, ses problmes

Les touristes, touristes partis

Partout les hommes sont les mmes, ici sans doute comme ailleurs

Ils lancent au loin leur «je t’aime», le ventre nou par la peur

Le ventre nou par la peur de l’avenir insaisissable

Toujours en qute d’un coupable, toujours en qute du bonheur.

The tourists, tourists gone, the little little village

Come face to face with himself, his truth, his problems

Tourists, tourists gone

Life seems to mark the pose, the beauties will no longer go to the wood

I love you metamorphoses from the beleaguered green seasons

Of mushrooms and chestnuts, earth and wet people

The corner of the fireplaces is impregnated with the perfume of long vigils

The tourists, tourists gone, the little little village

Come face to face with himself, his truth, his problems

Tourists, tourists gone

The old men warm themselves in silence on this square without a sound

A sun full of earthenware on their shoulders dozes off

We talk about fishing and hunting, we play dice or tarot

Children move up a class, women change knitting

The tourists, tourists gone, the little little village

Come face to face with himself, his truth, his problems

Tourists, tourists gone

The steeple rivalries in secret confabulations

Along the hidden lanes convent in the fire of twilight

Here no one ever forgets anything or what your grandfather was

Nor what you did as a kid when you went to the river

The tourists, tourists gone, the little little village

Come face to face with himself, his truth, his problems

Tourists, tourists gone

Men are the same everywhere, no doubt here as elsewhere.

They throw away their "I love you", the belly knotted by fear

The stomach knotted by the fear of the elusive future

Always looking for a culprit, always looking for happiness.