Dad, tell me that beautiful story again
Of gendarmes and fascists, and students with bangs
And sweet urban guerrillas in bell-bottoms
And songs by the Rolling Stones, and girls in miniskirts
Dad, tell me again all the fun you had
Ruining old age for rusty dictators
And how you sang Al Vent and you occupied the Sorbonne
In that French May in the days of wine and roses
Dad tell me that beautiful story again
Of that guerrilla madman who was killed in Bolivia
And whose rifle no one dared to take again
And how since that day everything seems uglier
Dad who Tell me again that after so many barricades
And after so much raised fist and so much blood spilled
At the end of the game you couldn't do anything
And under the cobblestones you couldn't There was beach sand
The defeat was very hard: everything that was dreamed of
It rotted in the corners, it was covered in cobwebs
And no one sings Al Vent anymore, there are no longer crazy people, there are no longer outcasts
But it has to rain, the square is still dirty
That May is far away, Saint Denis is far away
How far away Jean Paul Sartre remains, that Paris is very far away
However, sometimes I think that in the end everything didn't matter
The hell continues to fall on those who talk too much
And the same dead rotten by cruelty
Now those who died in Vietnam die in Bosnia
Now those who died in Vietnam die in Bosnia
Now those who died in Vietnam die in Bosnia

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