Atop of Saint-Vincent street
A poet and an unknown woman
Loved each other the span of an instant
But he never saw her again
This son he composed
Hoping that his unknown woman
One springtime morning will hear it
Somewhere at a street corner
The moon too pale
Puts down a tiara
On your red hair
The moon too red
Of glory splatters
Your petticoat full of holes
The moon too pale
Caresses the opal
Of your weary eyes
Princes of the street
Be welcome
In my wounded heart
The stairs of the mound
are harsh to the destitutes
The wings of the windmills
Protect the lovers
Young beggar
I feel your hand
Who searches for my hand
I feel your bosom
And your tiny waist
I forget my sorrow
I feel on yout lip
A smell of fever
Of badly nourished kid
And under your caress
I feel a intoxication
Who annihilates me
The stairs of the mound
are harsh to the destitutes
The wings of the windmills
Protect the lovers
But here comes the rain
The moon flees
The princess too
Under the moonless sky
I cry in the shadows
My vanished dream...