In the pavilion of my toys,
A small black mud troubadour his la? d attacks.
Sometimes I do not know? Where do you get:
he befriends the nights, the dogs, the walks.
But because you know you're better, come back to me?
with morning and sun or with gray alba.
It comes from the shadows of a secret that I do not know ?;
comes from a quiz, comes from a maybe ...
And for me? ta? e the la? d
with melody that looks blue;
and for my account your trip
and the song opens a suit ...
And for me? ta? e the la? d
precipitating it like an avalanche;
I suspect that his melody comes from loving poetry.
His version desperately sounds,
his version of the mysteries that animate him,
his version of the soul.
Their song of love beats the wings;
his country - his emotion - comes and walks:
his disappointment disarms.
And once the song is over, we have to wait
I will leave again, I will come again.
Ace? the dawn surprises me at times;
I'm still going to come back ...
(1980)
Only among all we can make this a better place :)