The olive trees give up
The grapes are reddening their noses
And the sand became cold
To the white sun
Masters bathers and seasonal workers
Return to their real jobs
And the santons will be carved
Before Christmas
It is in September
When the sailboats are unveiled
And the beach trembles under the shadow
Of an untanned autumn
It's in September
That we can live for real
In the summer my own country
In summer it's all about
The caravans, the camping-gas
In the great sun
The great fair of illusions
The underpants too short, the shorts too long
The Dutch girls and their melons
From Cavaillon
It is in September
When the summer puts its shoes back on
And the beach is like a belly
That no one has touched
It's in September
That my country can breathe
The land of my youth
Where my father is buried
My school was heated
In the great sun
In the month of May, I'm leaving
And I leave you to the strangers
To go and be a stranger myself
Under other skies
But in September
When I come back to where I was born
And my beach recognizes me
Opens the arms of a fiancée
It is in September
That I make myself the good year
It is in September
That I fall asleep under the olive tree
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