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I tell you about a time
Which those younger than twenty
Weren't able to know.
Montmartre in those days,
Hung its lilacs on walls
Right up to our windows.
And even if the humble pad
That served as our nest
Wasn't much to look at,
It was there that we knew each other,
Me, crying of hunger,
And you, posing in the nude.
La bohème,... la bohème,...
It used to mean we were happy,
La bohème,... la bohème,...
We didn’t eat but once every two days.
In the neighbouring cafés,
We were just people
Awaiting fame.
And even 'though miserable,
With our tummies tucked in,
We never stopped believing!
And when some pub,
Would exchange a canvas
For a good warm meal,
We would then recite verses
Gathered 'round the stove,
And forget about winter!
La bohème,... la bohème,...
It used to mean “you are pretty”
La bohème,... la bohème,...
And we were all geniuses!
It often times happened
I'd spend sleepless nights
In front of my canvas,
Touching-up the drawing
Of the line of a breast,
Or the shape of a hip.
And it wasn't 'till dawn
that we'd finally sit
in front of a café-créme,
exhausted, yet ecstatic,
as long as there was love,
for each other, and for life itself!
La bohème,... la bohème,...
It used to mean, “we are 20 years old!”
La bohème,... la bohème,...
And we would live off …the air...of times!
When a few days ago
I went to re-visit
My old address,
I didn't recognize
Neither walls, nor the streets,
That witnessed my youth!
At the top of a stairway,
I looked for the workshop...
…of which nothing remains!
With its new “look”,
Montmartre seems sad,
And the lilacs are dead!
La bohème,... la bohème,...
We were young... we were crazy fools!
La bohème,... la bohème,...
It doesn't mean anything,...
...at all, ...
... anymore!