A keresés eredménye

In My Father's Car

In my father’s car
When I was just a kid
We’d cruise around, slowly
But not with the parking brake on
As a child, behind the window
I’d watch nature passing by
I already loved playing around
Wave to other cars
Wave to other cars
And then, we’d play the license-plate game
To learn the French departments
Now, I know that 24
Is the Dordogne, of course
Thanks to my mother’s memories
In my father’s car
Thanks to my mother’s memories
In my father’s car
In my father’s car
 
In my father’s car
On our way to our holidays
We’d argue endlessly in the backseat
To choose the radio frequency
But we would always agree
On a bit of Brel, a bit of Jean Ferrat
Our old valuable tapes
Society, you won’t get them
Society, you won’t get them
And we’d sing at the top of our lungs
The poetry of famous authors
And maybe that was our best game
Singing them all by heart
Like silly people, between brothers
In my father’s car
Like silly people, between brothers
In my father’s car
In my father's car
 
In my father’s car
We’d drive miles
And then, during winter, we’d write
In the mist on the windows
And when my tennis racket
Would become the finest guitar
I’d act like Jimi Hendrix
I thought I was a rockstar
I thought I was a rockstar
In my father’s car
Since I’m not really a kid anymore
He drives a little more slowly
He lost his touch
He realizes that the time
We’re saving by driving faster
He’s paying it in full
Because he gets more miles per gallon
Because he gets more miles per gallon
 
To raise my child
The day my Clau will agree to conceive one
I’ll buckle him in to his car seat
And I’ll drive him on the roads
To play hooky
In my father’s car
To play hooky
In my father's car
In his grand-father’s car
In my father’s car
In my father’s car
 

My son left for the Jihad

He was a kid like any other,
and it's so hard to talk about it.
I know in the end it's all my fault,
how could I be so blind?
I pore over every word he said,
and what he managed to hide from me:
the long hours spent on his PC,
that's when they went for him.
 
And I didn't see a thing, it makes me sick.
My son left for the Jihad
And I didn't see a thing, it makes me sick.
My son left for the Jihad
 
He was just like any other teen:
rather nice and quiet.
He would never fall foul of anyone,
he was always kicking a ball.
He dreamt of being a caseworker,
thar's before he got brainwashed
by their predatory speeches
prowling for lost lambs.
 
It's with a brain like marmelade
that my son left for the Jihad
It's with a brain like marmelade
that my son left for the Jihad
 
He was a quite ordinary kid
who grew up near a small town.
And then the radical conversion
and the new name that follows.
I don't wish that to any mother,
it's a one way ticket to hell.
I can't believe he did this,
I can't even make his undone bed.
 
Thinking he'd help sick children,
my son left for the Jihad
Thinking he'd help sick children,
my son left for the Jihad
 
He was just old enough for a first smoke
and all my life ground to a halt
when I discovered this note:
'Mom, don't you worry,
I'm off to help young Syrians.
I'll write soon, promise
I love you so much'
And then nothing, not a word.
Radio silence.
 
I recall crying at the police station
my son left for the Jihad
I recall crying at the police station
my son left for the Jihad
 
Damnit, he was just a kid.
I don't want to look at this picture
(of him) with a rifle in his hands.
That's not him, not my Pete
He couldn't stand the sight of blood
He loved litterature
He killed innocent people
They make a kamikaze out of him.
 
He blew himself up in Baghdad
My son died for the Jihad
He blew himself up in Baghdad
My son died for the Jihad
 
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When she calls her mother

When she calls her mother
it usually lasts a while1.
It's worse than with a best friend.
Just see them chatting.
It's quite a moment :
'Hi mummy dear,
don't worry, I don't drink too much
and I keep an eye out in the subway.'
 
When she calls her mother,
it's always the same table of contents2:
the job, the little troubles,
the 'and by the way, didn't I tell you...'.
It can last for hours.
Even if a bomb went off
I'm not sure they would hang up:
'Seen any movie lately?'
 
When she calls her mother
When she calls her mother
When she calls her mother
When she calls her mother
 
When she calls her mother
and they start gossiping,
I eavesdrop a bit.
So what? We (guys) all do the same.
It's often juicy,
your average girl talk.
It's hard to figure
what a fuss they make.
 
When she calls her mother
I become secondary.
But with such a smile,
what could you say to her?
New denims on her butt,
chick talk.
But since it's always out of tenderness,
I play the spy to hear what they say.
 
When she calls her mother
When she calls her mother
and it goes on all over again
when it's her mother who calls.
 
When she calls her mother,
I watch my back,
in case I hung out with friends
until morning.
A washing-up not done
can get me into trouble too.
And since I feel bashful
I call my mother.
 
When she calls her mother
it usually lasts a while.
Long enough for me to run a marathon
or write five songs.
By the way I have to end
this little piece of metatheatre3,
and I'd better hurry,
I think she's about to hang up.
 

• 1. lit. 'it's rarely ephemeral'
• 2. sounds a bit unusual in French too
• 3. don't see any metatheatre there, but anyway...

Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.