Pages

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The moon all too fair...

Ugh. Finals week is here again. This is my fourth one. Finished a huge paper today, and am celebrating quietly by myself with some great seasonal beer and some lightening. I am also listening to sappy, sweet songs that make me want to dance or cry. Or both. This is the most beautiful song translation I've ever found. I've never known the translation, but looked it up tonight. Hope you enjoy, cause that's all you're getting until I finish the rest of my finals this week. Have a great night blogland.

Complainte de la Butte
La lune trop blême
Pose un diadème
Sur tes cheveux roux
La lune trop rousse
De gloire éclabousse
Ton jupon plein d'trous

La lune trop pâle
Caresse l'opale
De tes yeux blasés
Princesse de la rue
Soit la bienvenue
Dans mon coeur blessé

The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulins shelter you and I

Ma p'tite mandigote
Je sens ta menotte
Qui cherche ma main
Je sens ta poitrine
Et ta taille fine
J'oublie mon chagrin

Je sens sur tes lèvres
Une odeur de fièvre
De gosse mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse
Je sens une ivresse
Qui m'anéantit

The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the moulins shelter you and I

Mais voilà qu'il trotte
La lune se flotte
La princesse aussi
La la la la la La la la la la Mon rêve évanoui

Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux
Les ailes des moulins protégent les amoureux

English Translation:

The moon, all too fair, in your russet-red hair sets a sparkling crown
The moon, all too red with glory, is spread on your poor, tattered gown
The moon, all too white, caresses the light in your world-weary eyes
Princess of the street, do allow me to greet you, my broken heart cries

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours

I feel, beggar-girl, your fetters, they curl as they seek out my wrists
I feel your young breasts, your thin little waist
I lose my regrets
I taste on your mouth the feverish breath of a half-starving waif
And with your caress I sense drunkenness erasing my life

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours

And see how she skips, the moon how she drifts,
The princess in tow
Da da da da da da da da da da
My reveries grow

The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours