Les Anarchistes
Léo Ferré
The Anarchists
Not one in a hundred and yet they exist
Mostly Spanish, who knows why
You have to believe that in Spain they don't understand them
The anarchists
They picked up everything
Slaps and cobblestones
They shouted so loud
That they can still shout
They have their hearts in front
And their dreams in the middle
And then their souls all eaten away
By damn ideas
Not one in a hundred and yet they exist
Mostly sons of nothing or sons of so little
That we only see them when we're afraid of them
The anarchists
They died a hundred and ten times
For nothing and for what?
With love in their fists
On the table or on nothing
With a stubborn air
That causes blood to be shed
They struck so hard
That they can strike again
Not one in a hundred and yet they exist
And if we have to start with kicks in the ass
We shouldn't forget that it goes down to the street
The anarchists
They have a black flag
At half-mast on Hope
And melancholy
To drag through life
Knives to cut
The bread of Friendship
And rusty weapons
So as not to forget
That not one in a hundred and yet they exist
And they hold each other arm in arm
Happy, and that's why they're still standing
The anarchists
