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Old ones, sitting on garden's benches
They suck in puffs of air in a wind of memories
The mark of the hat on their chick heads
Old ones, half blind
Old ones, half deaf...
Old ones, that play bowls happily
Shiny holiday mornings that you can sleep
Glasses for look closely
For measure medicine drops
For slowing down a desease difficult to know about...
Old ones, that can't sleep 'cause of dry cough
Sitted down in the tip of the bed for rest from tiredness
They eat their own sighs and a some baked apples
Old ones, without a body
Old ones, without a caress...
Old ones, a bit farmers
That hope in the sky and dread it
Voices burned and consumed by smoke
And by grappini from a tavern...
Old ones, old rouges
Always filled by spits and advices
Old ones, without any sons now
And these sons that never phone them...
Old ones, that bring food for cats
And like cats they rummage through garbage
All their bones that do a lot of noise,
Grimace, funny and crazy sounds
Old ones, that never grew up...
Old ones, limpid souls like lime in backlight
Their eyes, wathered down by the rain of life
Old ones, alone like light poles
And have to live until death
What a pain...
Old ones, with their cloth hearts
An old dog as a troubles on a leash
Confued, they stumble in tenderness
And grumbling they go away...
The old ones grows old slowly
With a little shopping bag
The ones that return to the curch, leaves out curses
And being forgiven from God...
Old ones, poor stars
Old ones, poor unbuttoned patte
Reddened rugged cheeks
From sadness and from nostalgia...
Old ones, always annoying
Alone in the chicken, if someone is home
Old ones, that no one wants
Old ones, to throw away...
But old... old ones
If I could have a car to carry them all
I will like to drive all of them to the sea,
Wrap their trousers
And carry all of them on my shoulders...
Sitting down, relaxing... today we can fly...
And be careful to not sweat...
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