Barbara — Le Bourreau song lyrics and translation
The page contains the lyrics and English translation of the song "Le Bourreau" by Barbara.
Lyrics
Tendu de crêpe, au crépuscule,
Flanqué d’un grand noir majuscule,
Au zénith profond de minuit,
Il avance dedans la nuit,
Le bourreau, le bourreau.
Moi, je le nargue lentement,
Comme un jour d’hiver au printemps,
Comme la toute dernière gelée
Sur l’avant-garde de l'été,
Ce bourreau, ce bourreau.
Car moi je vis, comme un printemps
Qui en sait peu, qui ne sait pas,
Car moi je vis, comme un éclat
De feu d’amour en feu de joie
Et tant pis si, de temps en temps,
Il neige un peu sur mes printemps.
Je sais bien que, certains matins,
Il y a des fleurs de chagrin.
Flanqué de son grand M majuscule,
Tendu de crêpe au crépuscule,
Au zénith profond de mes nuits,
Il avance dedans ma vie,
Le bourreau, le bourreau.
Il connaît très bien son chemin.
Tous les chiens lui lèchent la main.
Il connaît très bien son chemin.
Tous les chiens lui lèchent la main,
Au bourreau, au bourreau
Mais moi je vis, comme un printemps
Qui sait très bien, qui prends son temps,
Mais je vis en attendant,
Le temps qu’il me reste de temps
Et bien sûr, que de temps en temps,
Il a neigé sur mes printemps
Mais je n’ai pas, dans mon jardin
Que des fleurs couleur de chagrin.
Quand se pose le crépuscule,
Vêtue d’un grand noir majuscule,
Gantée d’un velours noir qui luit,
Moi, je m’en vais vivre ma vie
Sans bourreau, sans bourreau.
Tout en le narguant lentement,
J’aurais cueilli tous mes printemps.
J’aurais vécu d’avoir aimé.
J’aurais tout pris, tout partagé,
Sans bourreau, sans bourreau.
Il peut venir au crépuscule,
Flanqué de son M majuscule.
Au dernier souffle de ma vie,
Il ne prendra qu’un corps sans vie.
Il ne prendra qu’un corps sans vie,
Le bourreau, le bourreau, le bourreau…
Lyrics translation
Crepe stretch, at dusk,
Flanked by a large capital black,
At the deep zenith of midnight,
He walks in at night,
The Executioner, The Executioner.
I mock him slowly,
As a winter day in the spring,
Like the very last jelly
On the avant-garde of summer,
What a bully, what a bully.
For I live, like a spring
Who knows Little, who does not know,
For I live, like a shine
From the fire of love to the fire of joy
And so much so, from time to time,
It snows a little on my spring.
I know well that, some mornings,
There are flowers of sorrow.
Flanked by its large capital M,
Crepe stretch at dusk,
At the deep zenith of my nights,
He's moving on in my life.,
The Executioner, The Executioner.
He knows his way very well.
All the dogs lick his hand.
He knows his way very well.
All dogs lick her hand,
To the executioner, to the executioner
But I live, like a spring
Who knows very well, who takes his time,
But I live in the meantime,
The time I have left
And of course, that from time to time,
It snowed on my spring
But I have not, in my garden
That flowers color of grief.
When Twilight arises,
Dressed in a large uppercase black,
Gloved with a shiny black velvet,
I'm going to live my life
No hangman, no hangman.
While taunting him slowly,
I would have picked all my spring.
I would have lived to have loved.
I would have taken everything, shared everything,
No hangman, no hangman.
It can come at dusk,
Flanked by its capital M.
At the last breath of my life,
He will only take a lifeless body.
He will only take a lifeless body,
The Executioner, The Executioner, The Executioner…