Que Reste-t-il de Nos Amours
Charles Trénet
What remains of our loves
Tonight the wind knocking at my door
Speaks to me of dead loves
In front of the dying fire
Tonight it's a song of autumn
In the shivering house
And I think of distant days
What remains of our loves?
What remains of those beautiful days?
A photo, an old photo
Of my youth
What remains of sweet notes?
Of April months, of meetings?
A memory that constantly
Haunts me
Faded happiness, hair in the wind
Stolen kisses, moving dreams
What remains of all that?
Tell me
A small village, an old steeple
A landscape so well hidden
And in a cloud, the dear face
Of my past
The tender words whispered
The purest caresses
The vows deep in the woods
The flowers found in a book
Whose scent intoxicates you
Have flown away, why?
What remains of our loves?
What remains of those beautiful days?
A photo, an old photo
Of my youth
What remains of sweet notes?
Of April months, of meetings?
A memory that constantly
Haunts me
