Rappers and slammers wonderfully write our language
I must say that the leader of all this, the one who emerges at the top, is Kery James
And you're going to hear him, listen especially carefully to the lyrics
How beautiful it is and how French it is

I blacken white sheets with ebony ink
With the ink of my sorrows
I exhaust myself under the fury of the wind
My words fly away like shifting clouds
They kill me every day in the language of Molière
I return each blow in the language of Césaire
To be Black, I sing my solitude
I dress despair that dawn undresses

I draw inspiration from dead leaves in autumn colors
My poetry is born where Summer falls asleep, when Winter hums
Since writing is daring, I dare without half-measures
I have crimson memories, enough to make the azure blush
I come from a concrete tower, at the loss of life
Cemeteries of illusions where desires hide
When tomorrows no longer even make promises
Dying at twenty may seem romantic to you
Dragging the day, I saw the night born
We long believed that living was killing boredom
Equality, I thought I saw it in silhouette
That night when poverty pointed a gun at my head

I blacken white sheets with ebony ink
With the ink of my sorrows
I exhaust myself under the fury of the wind
My words fly away like shifting clouds
They kill me every day in the language of Molière
I return each blow in the language of Césaire
To be Black, I sing my solitude
I dress despair that dawn undresses

Judged on my complexion, I write instinctively
I open my arms to the world but only sorrow embraces me
So forced smile, I will never be French
Here the sons of colonists are afraid of being greatly replaced
At sunrise my days will end
They will wage Eric Zemmour's civil war without me
Fear of differences, or health panic
Masked sheep find dictatorship salutary
I lead a bohemian life, I emancipate myself in letters
I don't wait to be loved, I demand respect
Every moment I die, I am not much
Can we make the world better by sowing petals of prose?

With ebony ink
With the ink of my sorrows
I exhaust myself under the fury of the wind
My words fly away like shifting clouds
They kill me every day in the language of Molière
I return each blow in the language of Césaire
To be Black, I sing my solitude
I dress despair that dawn undresses

Black
Black
Black
I'm often in a black mood
I have black thoughts
Sometimes I'm feeling blue
My poetry is black
I'm often in a black mood, black, black, black
I have black thoughts, black, black, black
Sometimes I'm feeling blue, black, black, black, black, black, black
My poetry is black

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