Jacques Brel - Orly

Original Title: "Orly"
Year: 1977

There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
Rain soldered them to one another, it seems.
There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
And I know that they are talking
He must tell her "I love you!"
She must tell him "I love you!"
I think they are busy not promising anything to one another.
Those two are too slean to be dishonest
There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
And suddenly, he cries
He cries hard
All surrounded as they are
by sweaty adipose
and hope guzzlers
pointing the nose at them.
But those two torn people
gorgeous from sorrow
abandon to dogs
the achievement of judging them

Life doesn't make gifts
And for God's sake, it's sad
Orly, on a Sunday,
With or Without Bécaud

And now they cry
I mean both of them
Earlier it was him
When I was saying "he"
As embedded as they are
they do not hear anything no more
but the sobs of the other one
And then
And then infinitely
Like two bodies that pray
infinitely slowly
Those two bodies part
And as they break up
Those two bodies tear each other
And I swear to you that they are screaming
And then, they pull themselves together
become one again
become the fire again
And then, tear each other again
Hold each other by the eyes
And then, while stepping back
like the sea recedes,
they consummate the farewell
He slobbers a few words
waves a vague hand
And suddenly, he runs
Runs without turning back
And then, he disapears
Eaten up by the stairs.

Life doesn't make gifts
And for God's sake, it's sad
Orly, on a Sunday,
With or Without Bécaud

And then, he disapears,
eaten up by the stairway
And she, she stays there,
Heart stretched to the sides, mouth opened
Without a shout, without a word
She knows of her death
She just crossed it
Here, she turns around
and turns around again
Her arms goes down to the ground
That's it! She is a thousand years old
The door is closed again
Here she is without light
She turns on herself
And already she knows
She'll always turn
She has lost men before
but there, she is losing love
Love told her
here comes the uselessness again
She'll live on projects
that will only wait
She is fragile again
Before being for sale
I'm here, I follow her
I don't dare anything for her
whom the crowd nibbles
like a mundane fruit.

Brel mentions Bécaud for his song about Orly's airport: Dimanche à Orly