Just as a fruit falls before it could ripen
Blame it on man, blame it on the wind
Just as a man who sees himself dying and knows
He will never have enough time

One more day, and he could have sung
Blame destiny, blame luck
Blame it on his broken strings
His song will be called silence

He can always start one
But nobody will ever dance on it

Nobody will chant with him
He will never finish anything
Except that wound in his heart
And that life

But why. I would like to know why... Why?
The end of the ball comes too fast.
Birds, not bullets
May be stopped in mid-flight.

Just as these quarrels starting at night
Blame the night, blame alcohol
Of which nothing will remain
Except a few butts on the floor

He would have however loved to stab
Blame the knife, blame fear
He will never have shed blood in a fight
Only time for some sweat

He who wanted to know everything
He wasnít even able to see everything

He who had love deep inside
For the only girl he might have kept
He sent her back
Without a kiss, without touching her, just thinking of it, till death

But why. I would like to know why... Why?
The end of the ball comes too fast.
Birds, not bullets
May be stopped in mid-flight.

He wrote as you get out of a trap
Blame the sun, blame the torments
But as he wrote on the snow
His ideas melted in Spring

And when snow covered his page
Blame the cold weather, blame winter
Instead of writing, he tried, good luck,
To catch snowflakes in the air

Of the escapee who will never have
Reached his aim

But today, itís too late
He will never have taken the start
And he will be remembered only
Through the song of before the fight

But why. I would like to know why... Why?
The end of the ball comes too fast.
Birds, not bullets
May be stopped in mid-flight.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
© Delobel. Translation, 2019
© Maxime Le Forestier. French translation