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It's dead in my head It's winter, the storm Far from the south, my warm country I have the north in my skin On my face which betrays me The ages that I forget are hidden somewhere in my past Where I died, where I was bornAt the threshold of the grand boulevardMy poems, your memoirsThe blind man and the trampMy face and your looksI no longer have juice in my nervesIt's the desert in my bodyThe descent it's hellAnd the crime is believing in itI would drink the raw of my sorrowsPurge the drunkenness and my painMy dreams die and I winterI will make love to hatredAt the threshold of the grand boulevardMy poems, your memoriesThe blind man and the trampMy face and your looksAt the threshold of the grand boulevard, two steps from hopeI saw the coming of deathMy face and your looks