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If I were not captive,
I would love this land,
And this plaintive sea,
And these cornfields,
And these endless stars,
If along the dark
wall did not sparkle in the shadows
The sword of the spahis
I am not tartare
So that a black
trouble may tune my guitar to Me,
hold my mirror.
Far from these Sodom,
In the land of which we are,
With the young men
We can talk in the evening.
Yet I love a shoreline
Where never winters
The cold breath does not come
through the open stained glass windows.
In summer, the rain is hot;
The green insect that roams
Shines, living emerald,
Under the blades of green grass.
Smyrna is a princess
With her beautiful chapel;
The happy spring unceasingly
Answers her call,
And, like a laughing group
of flowers in a cup,
In her seas stands
More than a fresh archipelago.
I love these vermeilles towers,
these triumphant flags,
these golden houses, like
children's toys;
I love, for my thoughts
More softly rocked,
these tents swung
On the backs of elephants.
In this fairy palace,
Mon coeur, full of concerts,
Croit, with muffled
voices that come from the deserts,
Hear the geniuses
Mix the harmonies
of the infinite
songs that they sing in the air
I love the sweet scents of these lands
burning hot;
On the golden
windows the trembling foliage;
The water that the spring spreads
under the palm tree that leans,
And the white
stork on the white minarets.
I like in a bed of mosses
To say a Spanish air,
When my sweet companions,
With their feet shaving the ground,
Legion wandering
Where the smile abounds,
Make their rounds turn
under a round parasol.
But above all, when the breeze touches
Me while flying,
At night, I like to sit,
To sit while thinking,
The eye on the deep sea,
While, pale and blond,
The moon opens in the wave
Its silver fan.
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