This song is for you,
You, the Auvergnat who without pretense,
Gave me four pieces of wood,
When it was cold in my life.

You who gave me fire when
The well-dressed and the peasants,
All the well-intentioned people,
Had shut the door in my face.

It was nothing but a wood fire,
But it had warmed my body,
And in my soul, it still burns,
Like a bonfire.

You, the Auvergnat, when you die,
When the undertaker takes you away,
May he lead you through the sky,
To the eternal Father.

This song is for you,
You, the hostess who without pretense,
Gave me four pieces of bread,
When I was hungry in my life.

You who opened your bread bin when
The well-dressed and the peasants,
All the well-intentioned people,
Were amused to see me fasting.

It was nothing but a bit of bread,
But it had warmed my body,
And in my soul, it still burns,
Like a great feast.

You, the hostess, when you die,
When the undertaker takes you away,
May he lead you through the sky,
To the eternal Father.

This song is for you,
You, the stranger who without pretense,
Smiled at me with a sad look,
When the police took me away.

You who did not applaud when
The well-dressed and the peasants,
All the well-intentioned people,
Laughed to see me taken away.

It was nothing but a bit of honey,
But it had warmed my body,
And in my soul, it still burns,
Like a great sun.

You, the stranger, when you die,
When the undertaker takes you away,
May he lead you through the sky,
To the eternal Father.

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