La Bohème

I'm talking to you about a time
That those under twenty
Cannot know
Montmartre, in those days,
Hung its lilacs
Right under our windows
And if the humble furnished room
That served as our nest
Didn't look like much
That's where we met:
Me, who was starving
And you, posing nude.

The bohemian, the bohemian
It meant:
We are happy.
The bohemian, the bohemian
We only ate every other day.

In the neighboring cafes
There were a few of us
Waiting for glory
And although we were poor
With empty stomachs
We never stopped believing
And when some bistro
Gave us a hot meal
In exchange for a canvas
We recited verses
Grouped around the stove
Forgetting about winter.

The bohemian, the bohemian
It meant:
You are pretty.
The bohemian, the bohemian
And we all had genius.

Often it happened to me
In front of my easel
To spend sleepless nights
Retouching the drawing
Of a breast line
Or the curve of a hip
And only in the morning
Would we finally sit down
In front of a café au lait
Exhausted but delighted
How we loved each other
And loved life.

The bohemian, the bohemian
It meant:
We are twenty.
The bohemian, the bohemian
And we lived off the spirit of the times.

When by chance on some days
I go for a walk
To my old address,
I no longer recognize
Neither the walls, nor the streets
That saw my youth
At the top of a staircase
I look for the studio
Of which nothing remains
In its new setting
Montmartre seems sad
And the lilacs are dead.

The bohemian, the bohemian
We were young, we were crazy.
The bohemian, the bohemian
It doesn't mean anything anymore...