So that was childhood.
Having a head clear
Dreaming the day, because we're scared at night
Maintain the myth of the fairy, the vampire and the terrible ghosts sleeping under the bed.
So that was childhood.
Dream a little for nothing
Hidden under a sofa or closet
Saying, "Where am I, Mom? »
Look carefully.
To our mothers who each time pretend not to see
What's life like, sir?
Wait and hope our defeats are veiled victories.
How many compliments for such a beautiful woman?
Is it true that over time feelings are extinguished?
What price for happiness?
What currency for the exchange?
If I write my story.
What pencil, what ink?
Sir, to reveal my sorrow
Can words still make sense of failure?
It's a fight, it's true.
But to be happy, what is it?
Our caches are so big that we want to stay here.
With our doubts, our shames, our secrets
Naked women full of dreams
Murderful revivals
When does childhood end? And then what, sir?
Then we can say we're old.
So young and so fierce, head full of worries
What the fuck is life?
A story we write with our fingers
The desire to believe in the most beautiful fights
Facing our mirrors
Don't have a choice
Doing to each of our steps
What is a man, sir?
Be sincere.
Make choices and hide behind
Find a pretext for every trial
Inventing a Future
Refouler sa part d'ombre
Search his half
Share fears of the future
His wounds from the past
And if it all goes smoothly
She'll grow her belly so that it becomes round.
How many crosses will we have to carry in advance?
When do you meet or at what crossover?
What's life like, sir?
Regretting her childhood
Bosser waiting to have a vacation
If from the path I turn away
If I prefer acts
To the thousand and one speech
Everyone does what they can to feel alive
Which side of the cage are we the freest on, sir?
There are still men
Able to say forgiveness
Sorry, I was wrong.
Everyone is neither good nor bad
It's just a heart.
At some point, at some point.
If in our heads naked women are still naked
Time won't erase path errors
Happiness is a luxury
When I wonder
It's a compass fighting a clock, sir.
A story we write with our fingers
The desire to believe in the most beautiful fights
Facing our mirror
Don't have a choice
Doing to each of our steps
It's late and I still doubt every step of my life.
Children have grown up
Some of them are over me.
The wrinkles have crept
There is still the unsaid
Time Has Made Its Work
The proof in a few rhymes
I'll be leaving soon.
It's a cycle.
I remember mothers saying, "That's how"
The clown is unhappy
He left the circus.
Her smile doesn't shine anymore
His actions are imprecise
If I fear loneliness
I refuse to pass on
The idea that pain persists
Rather than thinking
I don't believe in the facts anymore.
I'd rather say she's having sex.
Or be a prostitute.
There are things that drag around
In these taboos
That we'll always take someplace with us.
Our hearts, old of this time, like attices, welcome nothing but dust under spider webs, sir.
I'm at the age where we can't lie.
Your guardian's place
Well, I took it.
I'm watching your grave
Protect your daughter
To those I meet, I talk about your challenges
So that was life.
It all happened so fast.
I'm having trouble thinking it's almost over.
I've dealt happiness against some principles.
Now I'm happy and proud to tell you
A story we write with our fingers
Want to believe in the most beautiful fights
Facing our mirrors
Don't have a choice
Doing to each of our steps
A story we write with our fingers
Want to believe in the most beautiful fights
Facing our mirrors
Don't have a choice
Doing to each of our steps