Lyrics of Les touristes partis - Jean Ferrat

Les touristes partis (original)

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.

(translation)

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.