Une photo, vieille photo
En noir et blanc, datée au dos.
21 décembre, hiver 43
Nom de code Dora.
Mille manteaux, valises et chapeaux
Marchent tant comme un troupeau.
Savent-ils vraiment ce qui les attend ?
D'autres certainement.

Écoute son histoire, écoute ce violon qui pleure.
Au nom de la mémoire, écoute grincer sa douleur.
Et même si le bois a vieilli, sa triste musique reste en lui.

Un homme sourit comme pour dire merci
À celle qui l'aime, a-t-il compris
Qu'il y a des voyages d'où on ne revient pas
Des trains pour nulle part ?
Il voudrait rester, juste l'enlacer
Être né comme elle, ne plus se cacher.
Partager sa vie, revoir ses amis
Adam, Noah, Élie.

Écoute son histoire, écoute ce violon qui pleure.
Au nom de la mémoire, écoute grincer sa douleur.
Et même si le bois a vieilli, sa triste musique reste en lui.

Puis vint l'écho, la fin du ghetto
Quelques étoiles sur un drapeau.
Mais la sienne qu'il portait si haut
C'était son défaut.


Lyrics submitted by Oliviaka

Le Violon Pleure song meanings
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  • 0
    Song MeaningThis song focuses special attention on Frédéric's Polish-Jewish origins and recalls the Second World War, the occupation of Poland and the Holocaust.
    Oliviakaon July 09, 2017   Link
  • 0
    TranslationA photo, an old photo
    In black and white, with a date behind.
    December 21, winter (19)43
    Namecode Dora.
    A thousand coats, suitcases and hats
    Walk so much like a pack.
    Do they really know what awaits them?
    Certainly others.

    Listen to its story, listen to this crying violin.
    In the name of memory, listen to this speaking pain
    Even if the wood got old, its sad music remains inside.

    A man smiles, as if to say "thank you"
    To the one he loves, did he understand
    There were trips no one would come back from
    Trains for nowhere?
    He would like to stay, just to embrace her
    Be born like her, not to hide anymore
    Share her life, see his friends again
    Adam, Noah, Elias.

    Listen to its story, listen to this crying violin.
    In the name of memory, listen to this speaking pain
    Even if the wood got old, its sad music remains inside.

    Then came the echo, the end of the ghetto
    Some stars on a flag.
    But the one (star) he wore so high
    Was his imperfection.
    Oliviakaon July 11, 2017   Link

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