It's the plume on the ground
It's the tired look of a head
A low and pale head
The one that drags and wears the complexion of an upstart
Of a catch-up race
Of the heart which sets the usual bait
A coming and going from time to time
The one who tortures me and deceives me
But the fickle step which seeks the step
And which jumps in time
The fickle step which seeks the step
But which jumps in time
Foreigner
I feel close to the coup d'état
I dictate the actions to myself
I temper myself and attack
Under pretext of you
Lying on the ground suffering
Laying where it is allowed
On all fours and eating
What life she throws at me
But I have tarnished hard
Since our last kisses
I have vaguely taken the time it takes to atone
Under those who cry
And above those who don't dare
I pass on eau de cologne
With the scent of death
I feel close to a coup d'état
I dictate to myself actions
I temper myself and attack myself
Under the pretext of you
Under those who cry
And over those who do not dare
I pass some eau de cologne
With the scent of death
I feel close to a coup d'état
I dictate my actions
I soak myself and attacks me
For you