{Chorus:}
The tempo frees my imagination
Reminds me that my music was born in a cotton field
The five senses well sharpened, I am ready
The music enters my head, I let myself be guided
I find myself in a place where everything is white
Is this Paradise? However, a smell of blood
Floats just above the open hi-hat
Which guides my pen and my mind in these few verses
For each engraved word, a drop of sweat
Of those who fell in these fields of misfortune
Their lives hung by a chain
But their free souls soar today in the plains
They spent their lives between death and love
My skin color reminds me of it every day every time
{Chorus:}
The tempo frees my imagination
Reminds me that my music was born in a cotton field
The Island of Gorée, the origin of my pen
From my rhythm complaints resonate sinister
Which we hear in our verses, in these practiced compositions
Come from the mouth of a wise man with pierced nostrils
Who gathered in his valley
Dust from the sky, destiny turned upside down
In the holds of a slave ship, rope around the neck
The smell of death, these percussions are the memory of that time
And each blow of the bass drum hurts in the brain
The snare drum recalls this whip which lacerates the skin
The charlet, these breaths of passivity
Every word in my thoughts es for a murdered slave
The sample keeps coming back
Makes us everyday victims
How many people already know their future
Work hard to barely earn enough to survive
So that the mind can calm down, it is nourished by fictitious freedom
Here we are, slaves without chains
But the cotton fields are very far away
Today without constraint, we toil in the concrete fields
The conditioning is so perfect, so accepted
That some wait to be told to think
The pr Would this heavenly heritage be forever lost
Is it only in my head that the songs continue
{Chorus:}
The tempo frees my imagination
Reminds me that my music was born in a cotton field
I have one certainty
The evaporation of letters frees me from the yoke, from servitude
br/>And if today many use it
It is to break the chains of new forms of slavery
In vogue in our societies in the West, nothing new
The keys are words
Otherwise why would the Nazis have carried out book burnings?
In Toulon, books would be sold freely
But our texts over the air take the path of the air
Our voices will not be prisoners
Participated in music, this unique atmosphere
Breaks the laws of psychic enslavement
{Chorus:}
The tempo frees my imagination
Reminds me that my music was born in a cotton field

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS