When winds are tearing on roofs’ angles

Streets I barely cross through,

When days are stretching and do not end,

Do I miss home?

 

When I feel autumn wasting away over there,

When I know that the fire devours

The banks of theGaronnewhere trees blaze,

I miss home.

 

From this piece of land which burned my memory,

 This little point on the large canvas

 That an Italian grandfather chosed by chance,

 Long ago already,

 Long ago already.

 

 When the tambourine man sang only for me,

 When I was hiding to hear him,

 The garden hut, the padlock key,

 Long ago already.

 

 When I think about it too often,

 When my eyes crease,

 Since I know it exists without me,

 I put my heart on top of the ice stilts,

 I carry on like that,

 I carry on like that.

 

 When I think about it too often,

 When my eyes crease,

 Since I know it exists without me,

 I put my heart on top of the ice stilts,

 I carry on like that,

 When I miss home.