La Boheme
Gigliola Cinquetti
The Bohemian
I speak to you of a time
That at this moment
Has no more value
I speak to you of Montmartre
Of the lilac flowers
Blooming at the windows
Of our room
Full of hope
And of a great love
Painter means
Little to eat
But I never cried
The bohemian, the bohemian
Meant happiness
The bohemian, the bohemian
Was our beautiful age
And in the nearby cafes
We were someone
Waiting for glory
Of the poor, it is known
But to tell the truth
We believed so much
So much that a canvas
Then turned into
A hot meal
And all without a penny
Around a fireplace
Winter is no more
The bohemian, the bohemian
Means living like this
The bohemian, the bohemian
Loving everyone and saying yes
It often happened
That at your easel
You spent the night
And you drew me
Who was there for you
For hours and hours
And then in the morning
Dead tired
The sun found us
And we went down together
Both happy
To have a good coffee
The bohemian, the bohemian
To be twenty years old with you
The bohemian, the bohemian
I have never seen you again
When one day by chance
You find yourself passing
In front of the house
The house of Montmartre
You no longer see the lilacs
Everything seems sad
And on that staircase
The canvas no longer passes
Now everything is new
You are a great lord
Who dies of pain
And who never cries
The bohemian, the bohemian
You hear a voice and think of me
The bohemian, the bohemian
You never go back
