No song, no season,
no violin would have the charm of this moment,
no memories, no desire,
no pleasure would be as great1
as seeing you again inside my story,
in this mirror where we were lovers once,
our evenings of fun, our poet hearts
were meant to write the pages of a novel.
To tell you that I love you like before
I could burn an ocean,
to tell you that I love you right now
I could walk over the volcano
I leave Christmas to Santa Claus,
the new year will find us no less
torn apart, divided
from break ups to cries of an amazing love2.
No trip, no face,
no cloud could make me cry as much,
but I must say no smile
could make me suffer from love so tenderly.
To tell you that I love you like before
I could burn an ocean,
to tell you that I love you right now
I could walk over the volcano
To tell you that I love you like before
I could burn an ocean,
to tell you that I love you right now
I could walk over the volcano
Over the volcano, the volcano...
1. lit. "would be great enough to be better than..."2. that line sounds also a bit unusual in French