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Que sont mes amis devenus Que j'avais de si près tenus Et tant aimés Ils ont été trop clairsemés Je crois le vent les a ôtés L'amour est morte Ce sont amis que vent emporte Et il ventait devant ma porte Les emporta Avec le temps qu'arbre défeuille Quand il ne reste en branche feuille Qui n'aille à terre Avec pauvreté qui m'atterre Qui de partout me fait la guerre Au temps d'hiver Ne convient pas que vous raconte Comment je me suis mis à honte En quelle manière Que sont mes amis devenus Que j'avais de si près tenus Et tant aimés Ils ont été trop clairsemés Je crois le vent les a ôtés L'amour est morte Le mal ne sait pas seul venir Tout ce qui m'était à venir M'est advenu Pauvre sens et pauvre mémoire M'a Dieu donné, le roi de gloire Et pauvre rente Et droit au cul quand bise vente Le vent me vient, le vent m'évente L'amour est morte Ce sont amis que vent emporte Et il ventait devant ma porte Les emporta
About the headline (FAQ)
View text with all available footnotesNote: the text above has been modernized.
Text Authorship:
- by Rutebeuf (c1225 - c1285), "Complainte", appears in Poèmes de l'infortune [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
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Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Grant Hicks [Guest Editor]
This text was added to the website: 2018-09-11
Line count: 36
Word count: 180
What has become of my friends That I had held so close And loved so much? They have become too few and far between, I think the wind has taken them away. Love is dead. They are friends that the wind carries off And it was windy before my door And carried them off. With the season that strips leaves from the tree, When there remains on the branch no leaf That does not fall to earth, With poverty that lays me low, That from all sides makes war on me In the winter season, It is not right for me to tell you How I have shamed myself In what way. What has become of my friends That I had held so close And loved so much? They have become too few and far between, I think the wind has taken them away. Love is dead. Evil cannot come by itself; Everything I had coming to me Has befallen me. Poor sense and a poor memory Has God given me, the king of glory, And a poor living; And when the cold blast blows, right on the ass The wind strikes me, the wind blows on me. Love is dead. They are friends that the wind carries off And it was windy before my door And carried them off.
About the headline (FAQ)
View text with all available footnotesTranslations of titles:
"Complainte" = "Lament"
"Pauvre Rutebeuf" = "Poor Rutebeuf"
"Que sont mes amis devenus" = "What has become of my friends"
Text Authorship:
- Translation from Old French (Ancien français) to English copyright © 2026 by Grant Hicks, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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Based on:
- a text in Old French (Ancien français) by Rutebeuf (c1225 - c1285), "Complainte", appears in Poèmes de l'infortune
Go to the general view
This text was added to the website: 2026-10-12
Line count: 36
Word count: 221