The olive trees lower their arms
The grapes blush from the nose
And the sand has become cold
In the white sun
Beach masters and seasonal workers
Return to their real jobs
And the figurines will be carved
Before Christmas

It's in September
When the sailboats are unveiled
And the beach
Trembles under the shadow of a tanned autumn
It's in September
That one can live for real

In summer, my country to me
In summer, it's anything
The caravans, the camping-gas
In the great sun
The great fair of illusions
The too short briefs, the too long shorts
The Dutch women and their melons
From Cavaillon

It's in September
When summer puts on its shoes again
And the beach
Is like a belly that no one has touched
It's in September
That my country can breathe

Country of my young years
Where my father is buried
My school was heated
In the great sun
In May, I'm leaving
And I leave you to strangers
To go and be a stranger myself
Under other skies

But in September
When I return where I was born
And my beach recognizes me
Opens arms of a fiancée
It's in September
That I make the good year

It's in September
That I fall asleep
Under the olive tree

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES