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I will tell you about a time
that those under 20
Cannot remember.
Montmartre at that time
Hung its lilacs
up to our windows
And if this humble bed
which served as our nest
Didn’t look anything special,
that’s where we met
Me going on about starving
and you posing nude
Bohemian life, Bohemian life,
it meant you were happy
Bohemian life, Bohemian life,
we only ate every other day
In the neighbouring cafes
there was a few of us
Who waiting for glory
and although very poor
With empty stomachs
we never stopped believing
And when some bistro,
for a good hot meal
Would take a canvas off us,
we recited verse
Gathered around the pan,
forgetting the winter
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
that meant you were pretty
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
and we all had a little genius
Often it would happen,
in front of my easel
To spend sleepless nights,
retouching the drawing
Of the line of a breast,
the curve of a hip
And it was only in the morning
that we finally sat down
In front of a latte,
exhausted but delighted
For all this we had to love each other
and we had to love life
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
that meant we were twenty
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
and we all lived in the spirit of the times
When on random days,
I head off to take a walk,
To my old address,
I no longer recognise
Neither the walls nor the streets
which saw my youth
At the top of some stairs
I look for the workshop
Of which nothing is left.
In its new décor
Montmartre looks sad and the lilacs are dead
and the lilacs are dead
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
we were young, we were mad
Bohemian life, Bohemian life
that doesn’t mean anything any more