This kid who sits crying,
upset by too heavy griefs,
the older ones are having fun without her,
excluded from the gang, she remains alone.
One at the lead, some favorites,
she's too small, as it would seem.
Around hopscotches there are VIPs,
in nursery schools and in nightclubs as well.
But hush, don't cry, everything will be allright...
What should I have said to her, then?
The whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
Did you want me to tell her
that it will only get worse?
The saddest, the greatest shame,
she doesn't know about it, it's her age,
but one day she will be the one closing the door
when it's her turn to be the strongest.
This boy sitting in a corner,
fifteen, head in hands,
first love, first grief,
just like the shampoo: the two in one formula.
He may well say there's nothing to it,
pose as a man, show off,
to know she's in another's arms
it breaks his heart, it gnaws at his guts.
But hush, don't cry, everything will be allright...
What should I have said to him, then?
The whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
Did you want me to tell him
that it will only get worse?
That he has not shed his last tear,
that the lesson is never learned;
but if that can make him feel better,
one day he will be the one to pack and leave.
This woman hiding her tears
Coffee's brewing in the kitchen
Her boss did not feel too proud :
there's fat to trim, what a diet.
Hardback folders, training applications
neatly sorted papers, cover letters...
In her grief and her rage, the back of her hand sweeps
the payslips and requests for work experience.
What should I have said to her, then?
What should I have said to her, then?
Since she knew already,
she knew it better than I do,
that it will never get better,
that it will only get worse.
This old tired man from Algeria
who longs for his Maghreb night and day,
barely tolerated today,
but then he's only been here for thirty years,
and he will never own a home,
but he lives in a garret,
in Voltaire's country,
the country of Enlightenment and human rights.
This expelled illegal alien going back,
without even saying goodbye or a thank-you
for the free charter ticket
to his country's misery,
surely he will feel better knowing -
and he better not forget about that -
that we engraved 'fraternity' on the front of our town halls.
This convict locked in a cell together with five others,
he should enjoy it, since soon there will be ten of them.
This miserable sleeping on a subway vent,
he doesn't give a damn about me singing of him,
not loud enough and way out of tune.
What could they have said to me, then?
What could they have said to me, then?