Avec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
On oublie le visage et l’on oublie la voix
Le coeur, quand ça bat plus, c’est pas la peine d’aller
Chercher plus loin, faut laisser faire et c’est très bienAvec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
L’autre qu’on adorait, qu’on cherchait sous la pluie
L’autre qu’on devinait au détour d’un regard
Entre les mots, entre les lignes et sous le fard
D’un serment maquillé qui s’en va faire sa nuit
Avec le temps tout s’évanouitAvec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
Même les plus chouettes souvenirs, ça, t’as une de ces gueules
A la gallerie j’farfouille dans les rayons d’la mort
Le samedi soir quand la tendresse s’en va toute seuleAvec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
L’autre à qui l’on croyait pour un rhume, pour un rien
L’autre à qui l’on donnait du vent et des bijoux
Pour qui l’on eût vendu son âme pour quelques sous
Devant quoi l’on s’traînait comme traînent les chiens
Avec le temps, va, tout va bienAvec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
On oublie les passions et l’on oublie les voix
Qui vous disaient tout bas les mots des pauvres gens
Ne rentre pas trop tard, surtout ne prends pas froid
Avec le temps…
Avec le temps, va, tout s’en va
Et l’on se sent blanchi comme un cheval fourbu
Et l’on se sent glacé dans un lit de hasard
Et l’on se sent tout seul peut-être mais peinard
Et l’on se sent floué par les années perdues, alors vraiment
Avec le temps on n’aime plus
These are the lyrics to one of my very favourite French songs, ‘Avec le temps’ (In Time) and for me, it is absolutely poetry. Leo Ferre (1916-1993) was a prominent singer in France from the 50s right up the the 1980s.
This song is about how love can dissipate with time. As time passes, says the song, our love and passion can often wilt and finally die. However, it is the manner in which Ferre sings the song (as I hope you will see if you watch the video below) that I find absolutely hypnotic. His expression is so poetical; you can really feel the import of each word as he sings it (and each word is so loaded). What I love most about this song is near the end when he sings “et on se sent tout seul peut etre, mais PEINARD!” I love the way he cries out — almost shouts — that word, peinard, which means “comfortable” or “hunky dory”. Paradoxically, the singer’s indignation at the death of his passion seems to spark an incredible anger and passion, which he uses to express what has happened.
I just think that this is an incredible song, with wonderfully poetical lyrics. I have tried to translate it below, but I found it a very hard task and am still not happy with it. However, I don’t think that it matters too much; the best thing really is to read the translation to have the meaning, and then listen to the song to really hear the poetry. I hope that you enjoy this as much as I do!
My translation
In time …
In time, it goes, everything goes away.
We forget the face and we forget the voice,
The heart, when it stops beating, there’s no point
Searching any further, you must let it go and that’s good.
In time…
In time, it goes, everything goes away.
The Other, who we adored, who we searched for in the rain;
The Other, who we guessed with one look,
Between words, between the lines and beneath the make-up
Of a masked vow, who goes off for the night…
In time, everything vanishes
In time …
In time, it goes, everything goes away,
Even the best memories, the most incredible ones,
In the cheap shops I search the aisles of death,
On Saturday evening, when tenderness disappears.
In time…
In time, it goes, everything goes,
The Other, who we believed for silly reasons,
Tho Other, who we gave nothing and jewels,
For whom we would have sold our soul for a few pennies,
Who we followed around like dogs do,
In time, it goes; everything’s fine.
In time …
In time, it goes, everything goes.
We forget the passions and we forget the voices
Which whispered the words of poor people:
“Don’t stay out too late, and, especially, don’t catch cold.”
In time…
In time, it goes, everything goes away.
And we feel pale and grey like an old horse
And we feel frozen in a bed of chance,
And we feel all alone, perhaps, but comfortable.
And we feel fooled by the lost years
So, really,
In time we don’t love any more.
Reviewed by Emily Ardagh
