Thibault was born at the foot of a sacred mountain
It’s rock blanket caressed by the sun and the fairies
He had chosen to grow a fruit there
A fruit with the taste of life
Golden color

He drank the juice of his childhood
In a bosom swollen with the breath of summer
His youth, his laughter resounded on the frozen mountains
He had chosen to grow a fruit
A fruit with the taste of life
Golden color

On his twentieth birthday he took shovels and picks and dug the earth
It was to plant a tree
Flow sap, take life!
I cling to the roots
My whole being clings to it
Pull (ah!) your branches into the air

He let his moods split with the winds
Shining among the gods
Then came the day when his children spoke of an old man’s home
He had chosen to grow a fruit there
A fruit with the taste of life
Golden color

All alone without disturbing anyone preparing his departure
It was to go to a gray city that he left its ramparts
But before taking the road he thought of the tree
His tree had been nourished like him
by the smell of snow, of air, of charms
He had chosen to grow a fruit
A fruit with the taste of life
Golden color

At the foot of the tree he lay down and watched the squirrel dance
Slowly he passed away, his heart warm
He will not be alone