The lion's den
Is still a reality
Getting out is impossible for us
It's a false slogan

Our dear angel
Feeds on roots and then
He sleeps in the bushes under the trees
But he will never be a slave

The mirrors for larks
Uselessly flash on the ground now
Like prostitutes who sell in the night
A gay basket of love that is never love

Fear and alienation
And not what you say
The wrinkles have too many centuries by now
They can no longer be disguised

Our dear angel
Is young, you know
The nets preclude his open flight
But he never gives up

Cathedrals darken
The white wings, white they no longer seem
But our aspirations filter the darkness
Luminous tracers point him to the blue

CONSULTER LES PAROLES ORIGINALES