Festival

In the city of flowers, those who saw him pass
said he might've drunk too much, but that was just his norm.
Someone thought it was a woman problem,
another said just like Marilyn Monroe.
They took him away with two hundred,
too bad he was alone when he left.
The night they took the wine and washed the street.
Who killed that young angel who roamed without a sword?

And the TV man said:
"No tear should go to waste, after all, what’s
more beautiful than life, spring is almost here."
Someone remembered he had debts,
murmured quietly that was the reason.
He was full of tranquilizers, but he wasn’t a bad kid.
The night they took his hands
and used them for a louder applause.
Who killed the little prince who didn’t believe in death?

And far away, far away, you can say anything,
but the silence wasn’t ignored.
The music page reporter wrote:
"Everything has been paid for."
They found themselves behind the stage,
with sweaty eyes and hands in pockets,
everyone said, "I was his father!",
as long as the show doesn’t end.
The night everyone went out to dinner
and hummed "La vie en rose."
Who killed the doorman’s son,
who was in a hurry and didn’t stop?

And so it was the end of the game,
with friends who came from afar,
to lay a rose on the crime report,
to turn a blind eye, to shake a hand.
Some still remember him lighting a cigarette,
others made a monument
to forget a little faster.
The night they took the wine and washed the street.
Who killed that young angel who roamed without a sword?