Paroles et traduction Lynda Lemay - L'architecte

L'architecte

Il avait du talent en danse
Il est devenu architecte
Il était doué pour les lettres et les langues
Il parlait à ses plantes
Il faisait des miracles en cuisine
Mélangeait des épices divines

Mais son père, le dimanche, occupé à boire son apéro
N'a jamais, semble-t-il, remarqué que son fils était beau

Il était mordu de musique
Il est devenu architecte
Il était à ses heures poète et pianiste
Il s'entourait d'artistes
Il finissait toujours en cuisine
À jongler avec des clémentines

Mais son père, le dimanche, au souper, devant son numéro
N'a jamais, semble-t-il, remarqué que son fils était beau

Il aurait pu vivre de théâtre
Il est devenu architecte
Il citait par cœur tant Camus que Socrate
Qu'il avait lus en cachette
Il jetait ses vestons, ses cravates
Torse nu, il faisait l'acrobate

Mais son père, le dimanche, ignorait les prouesses de son fils
Et ne parlait jamais que du prochain projet d'édifice

Il est demeuré architecte
Il a dessiné des merveilles
A jonglé avec des compas et des règles
Un crayon sur l'oreille
Le veston, la cravate bien en place
En attendant son whisky sur glace

Comme son père le dimanche, quand sonnait l'heure de son apéro

Il avait du talent en danse
Il est devenu un peu raide
Mais parfois encore il se lève et s'élance
Et les pas se succèdent
Le voilà qui tournoie d'vant la glace
Il revoit le p'tit gars, le gymnaste

Que son père, le dimanche, semble-t-il, n'a jamais trouvé beau!

Et son père, un dimanche, s'est enfui dans son dernier repos
Sans jamais avoir vu, semble-t-il, que son fils était beau

The Architect

He had talent in dance
He became an architect
He was gifted with letters and languages
He talked to his plants
He worked miracles in the kitchen
Mixing divine spices

But his father, on Sunday, busy drinking his aperitif
Never seemed to notice that his son was handsome

He was passionate about music
He became an architect
He was a poet and a pianist in his spare time
He surrounded himself with artists
He always ended up in the kitchen
Juggling clementines

But his father, on Sunday, at dinner, before his show
Never seemed to notice that his son was handsome

He could have made a living in theater
He became an architect
He could quote Camus and Socrates by heart
That he had read in secret
He threw away his jackets, his ties
Bare-chested, he played the acrobat

But his father, on Sunday, ignored his son's exploits
And only talked about the next building project

He remained an architect
He designed wonders
Juggled with compasses and rulers
A pencil over his ear
Jacket and tie in place
Waiting for his whiskey on ice

Like his father on Sunday, when his aperitif hour rang

He had talent in dance
He became a little stiff
But sometimes he still gets up and takes off
And the steps follow
There he is, whirling in front of the mirror
He sees the little guy, the gymnast

That his father, on Sunday, apparently never found handsome!

And his father, one Sunday, fled into his final resting place
Without ever having seen, it seems, that his son was handsome