Alain Goraguer — Ma France song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Ma France" by Alain Goraguer.
Lyrics
De plaines en forts de vallons en collines
Du printemps qui va natre tes mortes saisons
De ce que j’ai vcu ce que j’imagine
Je n’en finirais pas d’crire ta chanson, ma France
Au grand soleil d’t qui courbe la Provence
Des gents de Bretagne aux bruyres d’Ardche
Quelque chose dans l’air a cette transparence
Et ce got du bonheur qui rend ma lvre sche, ma France
Cet air de libert au-del des frontires
Aux peuples trangers qui donnaient le vertige
Et don’t vous usurpez aujourd’hui le prestige
Elle rpond toujours du nom de Robespierre, ma France
Celle du vieil Hugo tonnant de son exil
Des enfants de cinq ans travaillant dans les mines
Celle qui construisit de ses mains vos usines
Celle don’t monsieur Thiers a dit qu’on la fusille, ma France
Picasso tient le monde au bout de sa palette
Des lvres d’luard s’envolent des colombes
Ils n’en finissent pas tes artistes prophtes
De dire qu’il est temps que le malheur succombe, ma France
Leurs voix se multiplient n’en plus faire qu’une
Celle qui paie toujours vos crimes vos erreurs
En remplissant l’histoire et ses fosses communes
Que je chante jamais celle des travailleurs, ma France
Celle qui ne possde en or que ses nuits blanches
Pour la lutte obstine de ce temps quotidien
Du journal que l’on vend le matin d’un dimanche
A l’affiche qu’on colle au mur du lendemain, ma France
Qu’elle monte des mines descende des collines
Celle qui chante en moi la belle la rebelle
Elle tient l’avenir, serr dans ses mains fines
Celle de trente-six soixante-huit chandelles, ma France.
Lyrics translation
From Plains to forts from valleys to hills
From spring to your dead seasons
From what I've seen what I imagine
I would not finish screaming your song, My France
In the Great Sun of T that curves Provence
From the gents of Brittany to the heather of Ardche
Something in the air has this transparency
And this got of happiness that makes my lvre sche, My France
This air of freedom beyond the borders
To the foreign peoples who gave vertigo
And don't you usurp the prestige today
It always answers the name of Robespierre, My France
That of the old Hugo thundering from his exile
Five-year-olds working in mines
The one who built your factories with her hands
That don't monsieur Thiers said We shoot her, My France
Picasso keeps the world at the end of his palette
Lvres of luard fly from doves
They don't end your prophet artists
To say that it is time for misfortune to succumb, My France
Their voices multiply and make only one
The one who always pays for your crimes your mistakes
By filling history and its mass graves
May I never sing that of the workers, My France
The one who has only her white nights in gold
For the stubborn struggle of this daily time
From the newspaper We sell on the morning of a Sunday
To the poster that we stick to the wall the next day, my France
That she goes up from the mines down from the hills
The one who sings in me the Beautiful The Rebel
She holds the future, clasping in her fine hands
That of thirty-six sixty-eight candles, My France.