Yesterday I heard your voice
In this windowless farmhouse you built so long ago
In France's quiet countryside
Where the red fields glisten
With hopes of more than just
Last year's corn, dryly peeking above the wire fences
And skies as colorful as a Paris I've never seen
So I've been dreaming a lot lately
J'ai beaucoup rêvé dernièrement
I've thought of
Going out to Paris
Just to meet
Those city boys with the lazy smiles
Who live in sanded villas
The ones whose eyes are filled with ­cathedrals and viridian waters
Who smoke cigarettes outside old coffee shops
And who smell of wine and sea salt
But you would say to me
The city is not for people like us, Fifille
There is much work to do here
For I've only known farm boys
With eyes like our horses
Looking out over the fields
For something to hold onto –
Quelque chose à quoi s'accrocher
But last year's corn didn't grow
And there isn't much time for anything else
And if you were alive
You would have said to me
The plow is hungry, Cherí
And the fields are ripe
So, tomorrow I'll plant
The corn without you
And this time
I'll let it grow tall
I'll leave the sickle in the old tool shed
The one you built, but now the roof leaks
I'll let the russet stalks peek above the wire fence
So they can see over the fields
And as the wind rolls by
They can whisper to me
À voix basse …
Oh, sweet corn, before I cut you down
Tell me what it looks like
In Paris