Serge Lama — Les jardins ouvriers (Les illusions) song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Les jardins ouvriers (Les illusions)" by Serge Lama.
Lyrics
Les jardins ouvriers
S’changeaient branche branche
Des oiseaux le dimanche,
Les maisons se parlaient.
a sentait le bb,
Les drages, les baptmes,
L’amour, les chrysanthmes,
Le propre et les abbs.
Des illusions, ils en avaient
Plein leurs armoires, plein leurs greniers
Qu’ils transmettaient par testament
leurs enfants.
a s’envolait comme un ballon,
C’tait sucr comme un bonbon,
C’tait pas vrai, mais c’tait bon,
Les illusions.
Les jardins ouvriers
C’tait de la verdure,
Un zeste de nature
O le soleil brillait.
Elle qui reprisait,
Lui, qui fumait sa pipe,
a faisait des quipes
Le coeur qui se taisait
Mais, les illusions,
Ils les dansaient sous les lampions,
Sur les pavs, dans la mitraille
Des trilles des accordons,
Les mois, les premiers frissons,
Les fleurs mortes et les papillons,
Ficels dans les botes en carton
Vos illusions.
Les jardins ouvriers
S’changeaient branche branche,
Des oiseaux le dimanche,
Mais… les maisons parlaient
Quand tu aimais les jeux
De Rimbaud, de Verlaine,
Par derrire les persiennes,
On te montrait des yeux.
Les illusions, c’tait au fond
Un parfum qui sentait pas bon
Comme ces fleurs qui poussent
Au milieu des chardons.
Les rumeurs battaient aux balcons
Comme le vent et les chansons,
a rend heureux, mais a rend con:
Les illusions.
Lyrics translation
The workers ' Gardens
Were changing Branch Branch
Birds on Sunday,
The houses talked to each other.
a smelled bb,
Dragees, baptisms,
Love, chrysanthemums,
The clean and the abbs.
Illusions, they had
Full their cabinets, full their attics
Which they transmitted by Will
their children.
a flew like a balloon,
It was sweet as a candy,
It's not true, but it's good,
Illusion.
The workers ' Gardens
It was green,
A zest of nature
O The Sun was shining.
She who resumed,
Him smoking his pipe,
a made quipes
The heart that was silent
But, illusions,
They danced them under the lampposts,
On the pavs, in the machine gun
Trills of accordions,
The months, the first chills,
Dead flowers and butterflies,
Twine in cardboard boxes
Your illusions.
The workers ' Gardens
Were changing Branch Branch,
Birds on Sunday,
But ... the houses were talking
When you loved games
By Rimbaud, by Verlaine,
By derrire Les lousiennes,
We were showing you eyes.
Illusions were at the bottom
A perfume that smelled not good
Like those flowers that grow
In the middle of the Thistles.
Rumors beat on the balconies
Like the wind and the songs,
a Makes happy, but a Makes con:
Illusion.