I brought this one in for my French II teacher. It was a little ahead of where the class was at the time, but the teacher loved it, and without my asking, she made copies of the lyrics for everyone and presented it.
Lynda Lemay's voice is very good here if you're learning: she enunciates well. It's a sad, sad song.
Tell your children that you love them. Praise them for their talents, whatever they may be. And please, if you're an architect, don't force your son to grow up to be an architect too.
English translation:
He had a talent for dancing
He became an architect
He had a knack for arts and languages
He talked to his plants
He made miracles in the kitchen
Mixed divine spices
But his father, on Sundays, busy drinking his aperitif
Never said, it seemed, that his son was good.
He was bitten by music
He became an architect
He was, in his time, a poet and a pianist
He surrounded himself with artists
He always ended up in the kitchen
Juggling clementines
But his father, on Sundays at supper reading the latest edition
Never said, it seemed, that his son was good.
He could have lived the life of the theater
He became an architect
He quoted from memory everything from Camus to Socrates
Which he had read in secret
He threw off his suit jackets, his ties
Bare-chested, he played the acrobat
But his father, on Sundays, ignored the skills of his son
And never talked of anything but the next building.
He remained an architect
He drew up marvels
Juggling compasses and rulers,
A pencil on his ear.
His suit jacket and tie were well in place
Waiting on his whiskey on the rocks
Like his father, on Sunday, when it was time for his aperitif
He had a talent for dancing
He became a bit stiff
But sometimes still he gets up and throws himself
And his steps fall into place
Here he is, whirling on the ice
He sees again the little gymnast
That his father, on Sundays, it seems, never found beautiful!
And his father, one Sunday, fled to his final rest
Without ever having seen, it seemed, that his son was good.
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