Bermudes [English translation]

And this guy stretched out on the crossing, who bawls under the halberds

And this old Chinese woman, who's pissing in the street three metres away from the entrance to Franprix

And the girl on the dock, glaring under knotted brows

And the printed characters which treat us in turn like animals or like we're stupid

And the lousy Cossacks, transporting their home from place to place

And students* who hurt their hands in the ice under the cascades of neon blue

And the ambulance** which nearly touches us with its locomotive breath, rushing along

And the sirens and the flashing lights and the klaxons and the gunshots

And the seven musics of hell

And the hunchbacked mother of this old friend who's gone mad

And these fragile friends who flip back and forth

And he, who doesn't want to understand that you could hit him with the idea that it'll never come back

And the other bastard, who talks too loudly, too cruelly, who spends his time shitting on the world

And he who doesn't find because he doesn't search

And he, who wants to break away

And she, with her vague look, and he who did not master his brain

And she, who's fallen sick even though she's never done anything to anyone

And he, who has more life force

Where's your rage?

Where's your passion?

What happened to your six-metre long hard-on?

And she, who understands nothing but her pussy, because she's blown up too many times without being called back

And my head, which still plays tricks on me

And me, struggling to cover myself

Which rubs me too close to the debris

Which loses me too often in the Bermuda Triangle

And the big glasses which I send myself on a regular basis, a terrycloth

And the smell of a wood-fire which sticks to my skin

And my head full of anxiety this morning

And the battlefield, when I see us all scattered and broken apart

And we, who masturbate for 24 hours, then self-flagellate for masturbating

Then we say we do and in truth we don't

So we don't say, and then we do, then we get tired

Then we apologise for being sad, then for being happy, then for apologising

Then it's really shit, that's it, it's shit

Keep digging, pal, keep dgging

And me, doubting, talking shit at full throttle, jerking off

And my project, which causes me trouble sometimes

But damn, it wasn't planned like this

And poor rhymes, and dry orgasms

And false promises

And new faces of stupidity, made up like Renaults, trafficking whores from the battle of Caen***

And the raving lunatics who it's necessary to oust for thirty pieces****

And the hearts which soar away

And the courage and hope that we crush when we finally try

And the beautiful things which we made just to break, but it won't move, no

And my people who collect and my people who advance

And my people who support me and my people who I always agree with

And me pushing my voice like a machete, like a sling, like a beacon

It's for my salvation