Boemia (La Boheme)

I speak of a time when today's youth can no longer live, Montmartre adorned covered in lilacs, and under windows, humble people slept, in linen rags, lived on the streets, there we met, me painting hunger and you posing naked.
Bohemia, bohemia, leisure, love, and distraction.
La boheme, la boheme, eating one day and not the next.
In the neighboring cafes
we were a few
waiting for glory
and although poor
with empty stomachs
we never stopped believing
and when some bistro
for a good hot meal
took a canvas from us
we recited verses
gathered around the stove
forgetting the winter.
La bohème, la bohème you were beautiful and something more
la bohème, la bohème we were young and brilliant.
Often it happened to me
in front of my easel
to spend sleepless nights
retouching the drawing
of the line of a breast
the curve of a hip
and it was only in the morning
that we finally sat down
in front of a café-crême
tired but delighted
we had to love each other
and love life.
La bohème, la bohème crazy happy twenty years
la bohème, la bohème living from the air of everyday life.
When by chance of 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 decor
Montmartre seems sad
and the lilacs are dead.
Bohemia, bohemia, we were young and very crazy
la bohème, la bohème
it doesn't mean anything anymore