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It's raining. It's already late.
Night Paris echoes in the lights.
I'll throw a hawk and a letter with a coin,
I'm calling you that there's an economic crisis.
The Champs-Elysee is shrouded in fog,
The empty room quickly dims.
There is a teacher's portrait in the wall,
There is an empty goblet between the fingers.
It is raining. It's evening on the street.
Evening Paris echoes from the footsteps.
Liquor casts reddish shadows on the face,
that worn-out tune rings softly.
Then on the stairs an unknown man stops,
the coat has a certain beige hue.
There is a portrait of a teacher in the wall,
he stands and smiles: 'Pierre J. Proudhon.'
It is raining. It's already late.
Footsteps echo in the empty room.
I toss a hawk and a letter with a coin,
there is an empty goblet between my fingers.