La carte postale [English translation]

I’m writing to you.

It’s me.

It’s still early.

I dreamt so much;

The paper

Under my fingers

Is hard like your body.

I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

I drew

Your name and your address,

Here on the side.

It’s like a promise.

Oh God, how banal it is,

The little postcard

That hurts.

I chose

This picture.

I find it pretty,

Maybe a little bit sober

to tell the truth

without blushing.

I have nothing to tell you.

I just want to write to you, write to you.

I drew

your name and your address,

here on the side.

It’s like a promise.

Oh God, how banal it is,

the little postcard

That hurts.

I’d like to tell you

About the pretty sand,

About the wind which sleeps

On the golden seashells.

I’d like to tell you

About the people outside

Who get a tan together

Like dead seashells,

But here in my lines,

I’m not so clever.

I’m just a semaphore

That shouts, ‘I adore you, I adore you!’

I’m writing to you.

It’s me.

It’s still hard.

I love you strongly enough,

Paper

Under my fingers

Again and again.

I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

I know, I’m wrong, I’m wrong.