The writing of our loves says do you hear it?
which crosses the bodies in the trenches of time
from the humid to our eyes do we will make the fire
the flame between our arms will you come back?
we are all at the table gorging ourselves with wine
but who can keep the blood in our hands
breasts of the holy women who offer us their bodies
and the body of this murderous devil of time
I will be on the roads will you follow me?
I will go between the drops will you wet
boats consumed in the heat of the evening
and sure that deep in the eyes we will see hope
that the fucking are joining those of the north
may my body in jubilation keep the devil in the body
may the hearts of the sad sing the joy of living at last
under the fireworks on the surfaces too beautiful
I am for the whores and for the infidels
much more than for the priests much more than for the nuns
cursed those who would like love to remain wise
at the meeting below we will see who will burn
our faces are beautiful as they are without the master
at the table of kings the sanguine idiots always
no need for combat they will burn on their own
in a fire of straw in the dunghill just before dying
I'm leaving for my hell I'm leaving but don't worry
I really need some no more to give them back my weapons
just sold my soul to some second-hand dealers
to your flesh for the worms to your health I drink
I will piss on your graves I will I'll spit, I'll kiss there bitches who make the months of April
who make the dogs run after the girls' asses
go tighten your wine because our bodies are on target
go give your breast that our mouths are full
so that finally up to heaven we make these loves
which make men sometimes worth much more than their gods
I will piss on your graves I will spit there 'I will fuck there
with those who want and men if necessary
like a finger that rises in front of decorum
and that we keep very high just to say goodbye to god

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