If I were not a captive,
I would like this country,
And this plaintive sea,
And these fields of corn,
And these countless stars,
If along the dark wall
Did not glimmer
The saber of the Spahis.

I am no Tartar
That a black eunuch
Should tune my guitar,
Should hand me my mirror.
Far away from these Sodoms,
In the country where we are,
With the young men
You can speak in the evenings.

Yet I like a riverbank
Where the cold breath
Of the winters never arrive
Through the open windows.
The summer, the rain is warm,
The green insect that wanders
Glistens, a living emerald,
Under the blades of green grass.

 ... 

I like in a bed of froth
To tell a Spanish song,
When my gentle companions,
Feet skimming the ground,
Vagabond legion
Where smiles abound,
Whirl around in circles
Under a round parasol.

I like in a bed of froth
To tell a Spanish song,
When my gentle companions,
Feet skimming the ground,
Vagabond legion
Where smiles abound,
Whirl around in circles
Under a round parasol.

But especially, when the breeze
Touches me while fluttering about,
In the night, I like to be sitting,
Sitting while dreaming,
An eye on the deep sea,
While, pale and blonde,
The moon opens in the waves
Her silver fan.