Everybody thinks about it,

Men, angels, vultures.

There are no more distances,

Nobody having too short arms.

Everybody hopes,

Even in the back of the backyards.

Everybody wants his return ticket

Of love, love, love, love.

 

His strike of luck,

The one which burns you, floods you,

But the sky doesn’t care,

Since it’s not for everybody.

There are lots of people at the emergencies,

Under the lights of lampshades,

Waiting for their return ticket

Of love, love, love, love…

 

These angels dancing,

Upon these posts soaked with alcohol,

In these immense cellars,

Hair stuck on shoulders,

Fly away silently,

And scatter at dawn,

Looking for return tickets,

Of love, love, love, love.

 

These women moving forward,

Holding at arm’s length

These children who throw

Stones towards the soldiers:

It’s a lost battle,

Pebbles on heavy helmets…

All this for return tickets

Of love, love, love, love…

 

Men, angels, vultures…

Nobody having too short arms…

Everybody thinks about it…