Que Reste-T-Il De Nos Amours?

What remains of our loves
What remains of those beautiful days
A photo, old photo
Of my youth
What remains of the sweet notes
Of April months, of appointments
A memory that constantly
Haunts me

Faded happiness, hair in the wind
Stolen kisses, fleeting 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