Lynda Lemay — L'architecte song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "L'architecte" by Lynda Lemay.
Lyrics
Il avait du talent en danse
Il est devenu architecte
Il était doué pour les lettres et les langues
Il parlait à ses plantes
Il faisait des miracles en cuisine
Mélangeait des épices divines
Mais son père, le dimanche,
Occupé à boire son apéro
N’a jamais, semble-t-il, remarqué
Que son fils était beau
Il était mordu de musique
Il est devenu architecte
Il était à ses heures poète et pianiste
Il s’entourait d’artistes
Il finissait toujours en cuisine
À jongler avec des clémentines
Mais son père, le dimanche, au souper,
Devant son numéro
N’a jamais, semble-t-il, remarqué
Que son fils était beau
Il aurait pu vivre de théâtre
Il est devenu architecte
Il citait par cœur tant Camus que Socrate
Qu’il avait lus en cachette
Il jetait ses vestons, ses cravates
Torse nu, il faisait l’acrobate
Mais son père, le dimanche, ignorait
Les prouesses de son fils
Et ne parlait jamais que du prochain projet d’édifice
Il est demeuré architecte
Il a dessiné des merveilles
A jonglé avec des compas et des règles
Un crayon sur l’oreille
Le veston, la cravate bien en place
En attendant son whisky sur glace
Comme son père le dimanche,
Quand sonnait l’heure de son apéro
Il avait du talent en danse
Il est devenu un peu raide
Mais parfois encore il se lève et s’élance
Et les pas se succèdent
Le voilà qui tournoie d’vant la glace
Il revoit le p’tit gars, le gymnaste
Que son père, le dimanche, semble-t-il, n’a jamais trouvé beau !
Et son père, un dimanche, s’est enfui
Dans son dernier repos
Sans jamais avoir vu, semble-t-il,
Que son fils était beau
Lyrics translation
He was talented in dance, He became an architect He was good for the letters and the languages He spoke to his plants He made miracles in the kitchen, mixing Up of the spices divine, But his father, on the Sunday, Busy to drink her drink has never, it seems, noticed That her son was beautiful It was a bit of music He became an architect He was at times a poet and pianist, He is surrounded by artists It always ended in the kitchen juggling clementines, But his father, on Sunday, at supper, in Front of his number has never, it seems, noticed That her son was beautiful, He would have been able to live theatre, He became an architect He was quoting by heart as albert Camus that Socrates That he had read in the hiding place He threw his jackets, his ties, his Chest bare, he was the acrobat, But her father, on Sunday, was not aware of The prowess of his son And never spoke about that the next building project He remained an architect He has designed wonders Has juggled with compasses and rules, and A pencil on the ear jacket, the tie in place while waiting for his whisky on ice As his father Sunday, When sounded the hour of his drink He was talented in dance, It has become a little stiff, But sometimes even he gets up and goes, And not follow one another here he is, reeling from before the ice, He sees the little boy, the gymnast That her father, on Sunday, it seems, has never found beautiful !
And his father, one Sunday, fled to his last rest without ever having seen, it seems, that his son was handsome