How beautiful and discreet, this port, at night,
When you listen to fado, come that voice, Misia
It becomes deep and mysterious, sonorous,
Its numerous lights are warm as wool.
How enchanting this port, at night, o night
Between the sea and the starry sky that sleeps,
Its illiterate cranes are so stupid, yes,
Yet they really know the pain of the world,
How beautiful, so quiet on the horizon, this port,
When listening to fado, O Misia, my queen,
We want to love you like Lisbon or Porto, now
I understand Rimbaud abandoning poetry.
Qu’il est beau et discret, ce port, la nuit,
Quand vous écoutez du fado, cette voix, Misia
Il devient profond et mystérieux, sonore,
Ses lumières sont chaudes comme la laine.
Qu’il est enchanteur ce port, la nuit, O nuit
Entre la mer et le ciel étoilé qui dort,
Ses grues analphabètes sont si bêtes, oui,
Elles savent pourtant la douleur du monde,
Qu’il est beau, si calme sur l’horizon, ce port,
Quand on écoute du fado, O Misia, ma reine,
On veut t’aimer comme Lisbonne ou Porto, Enfin,
Je comprends Rimbaud qui abandonne la poésie.
he was grumpy, gritty, and grotesque, Grover Grues.
but his balance was beautiful, and he sang the blues
no one in the swamp could fill in Grover’s shoes.
his blues were spectacular, this was no news.
the other frogs would congregate here at night.
second it looked like it might become twilight.
they loved Grover’s guitar, and his voice, so mellow and light.
he could sing the blues better than anyone; he was out of sight.
What gain is reaped in war's cruel strife?
What honor does it truly crown?
When lives young and old, precious, ripe,
Stooped, silenced—dreams torn down?
In ruins, wailings, someone sobbing,
Loved ones lie lifeless—tragic loss,
Wars waged by kings of greed,
Hungry political grues.
Dominion, power pursuit,
Wealth, pride, and prestige,
Autocracy, they boast,
Cost peaceful lives' carnage.
Selfishness—the color of their love,
Clad in strong political will,
Torn weak nations, they grabbed,
Incite wars for their fill,
From national pride to world command,
Hawkish kings seek domination,
Enslaving others, for their brand,
Expend others in desolation.
Their greed can never meet—
Satisfaction with material wealth,
God will come, their dreams are killed,
Judge their debt long unpaid.
Their arrogance, they dare claim,
To be gods, rulers of all,
But when God Himself returns, proclaims—
His kingdom on Earth will sum it all.
Patience prepares us for salvation,
Avenge the oppressed, grant their plea,
God, the only true God, and King of creation,
Settle the world's controversy.
This song comes from some place
And its dancers, with hips up
Are going to the same place
And this song does not stop
Wither comes this song they dance
No one knows
Thither goes the sum who dance
Hope God knows
It is, the siren song
Finely tuned from some sweet lore
It is, the siren song
Whose dance is but a sweet chore
So enchanting is this song
That even they who cannot dance
Can be heard singing along
Joining the band at any chance
While the wind blows them, wildly on
And they heed no call on this trip
To God’s city; Nay to Babylon
For the song has hard its grip
Vices veneered as virtues
Prettified in bird suits
To conceal the grave grues
On its convoluted routes
Don’t dance, I say do not dance
Albeit that it allures
For thereto, lies dire durance
Lavished with ligatures
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