Ceux qui rêvent [English translation]

My white [sleepless] nights are not white,

but are barely, sparsely brightened with stars.

Little holes in the watertight canvas,

sad strata on the sail.

And I, bewitched by darkness,

spend infinite hours

counting the morbid sheep

that weave my bouts of insomnia.

Ah (exasperation), midnight is here.

Ah, I'm not asleep.

And the less I sleep the more I think,

and the more I think the less I forget

the immense impasse, the immense space

that extend to the bottom of my bed.

It is unheard-of, all these silences!

How cosmic is this boredom!

Should I resort to science?

Should I anesthetise the insomnia?

Ah, midnight is here.

Ah, I'm not asleep.

And past midnight I dance

to the rhythm of the tachycardia

And everything gets carried away and swings

And spreads me and escapes me.

The moon is a somewhat rancid fruit,

Life is a malady.

Those who dream are quite fortunate,

the others have insomnia.

Those who dream are quite fortunate,

the others have insomnia.

Those who dream are quite fortunate,

but I, I have insomnia.

Ah, midnight is here.

Ah, I'm not asleep.

Ah, midnight is here.

Ah, I'm not asleep.

I'm not asleep.

I'm not asleep.

I do not sleep.

I do not sleep.

I do not sleep.