Like a fruit fallen before it could ripen,
blame it on men or on the wind,
like a man knowing as he dies
heíll never again have the time

One more day and he could have sung,
blame it on fate or on bad luck,
blame it on these long broken strings,
silence will be his only tune.

No matter if he starts singing,
no one will ever come to dance

No one will ever sing along.
He will have finished nothing
except for this wound in his heart
and this life.

Why oh why, somebody tell me why
the ball should be over so soon.
Itís always birds, never bullets
that get struck down mid-flight

Like these long drawn evening quarrels,
blame it on the night or the booze
that will vanish without a trace
except some dog-ends on the floor.

And yet he was eager to strike,
blame it on the knife or on fear,
Heíll end up having drawn no blood,
only some sweat, and not for long.

He who yearned to know all,
will fail even to see it.

And yet he overflowed with love
for the one he would not have left.
He returned his boat to the port
without kissing nor touching her, still he thought of her till he died.

Why oh why, somebody tell me why
the ball should be over so soon.
Itís always birds, never bullets
that get struck down mid-flight

He wrote like one escapes a trap,
blame it on the sun or the woes,
but as he used snow for paper,
all his thoughts melted in the spring.

And when snow covered his page,
blame it on the fog or winter,
he stopped writing and boldly tried
to catch the snowflakes in the air.

But now it is too late to start.
He will never enter the race

His only memory will be
the tune he sang before the fight,
an escapee who would never
reach his goal.

Why oh why, somebody tell me why
the ball should be over so soon.
Itís always birds, never bullets
that get struck down mid-flight

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
© ?. Translation, 2020
© Maxime Le Forestier. French translation