They are present in our dreams, our blood flows in their veins, We pass on our joys to them,
sometimes we slap them on the fingers, We pass on our love of the vine to them, they are worthy of it,
We pass on our passion for wine to them, it’s not nothing, Time has no price,
from year to year it flows into its bed,

These are the generations,
They are two, three, five, They build, they follow one another,
They write the pages of our beautiful Champagne.