La butte rouge
Yves Montand
The Red Hill
On this hill there, there were no fancy girls,
No thugs, nor handsome guys.
Ah, it was far from the Moulin de la Galette,
And from Paname, which is the king of shams.
How much beautiful blood this land has drunk,
Worker's blood and peasant's blood,
Because the bandits, who are the cause of wars,
Never die from it, only the innocent are killed.
The Red Hill, that's its name, the christening was one morning
Where all those who climbed, rolled into the ravine
Today there are vineyards, grapes grow there
Whoever drinks this wine, will drink the blood of buddies.
On this hill there, they didn't celebrate,
Like in Montmartre, where champagne flows freely.
But the poor guys who left kids behind,
Made painful sobs heard.
How many tears this land has drunk,
Worker's tears and peasant's tears,
Because the bandits, who are the cause of wars,
Never cry, because they are tyrants.
The Red Hill, that's its name, the christening was one morning
Where all those who climbed, rolled into the ravine
Today there are vineyards, grapes grow there
Whoever drinks this wine, will drink the tears of buddies.
On this hill there, they do the harvest,
You can hear cries and songs.
Girls and guys, gently, exchange
Words of love, that give chills.
Can they think in their wild embraces,
That in this place where they exchange their kisses,
I heard, at night, cries rising,
And I saw guys with broken skulls.
The Red Hill, that's its name, the christening was one morning
Where all those who climbed, rolled into the ravine
Today there are vineyards, grapes grow there
But I see crosses, bearing the names of buddies.
