8 bullet holes. 8 friends are dead
Their ghostly voices ring in my head
As out of a window I hang
The window through which now lifeless voices once sang
The darkness closes in all around
Yet still the flag has not fallen to the ground
A dream it was. For me a dream it will stay.
I know now I was not destined to see that day
When beggar and bourgeoisie meet in the street
And neither looks away nor down to their feet.
When Patria sits once more on the throne
And no citizen has a good reason to grumble or moan
Today in Paris you can walk past
A busy McDonalds where I took my last
Breath of Parisian smog and grime.
Nothing much changes over time
A gamine still lies cold on the floor
And there are starving children behind a closed door
The Republic is there- you could say that's a good thing
But the Republic is now tainted with sin
The Republic that formed at the extortionate price
Of bloody and naïve human sacrifice
8 bullet holes, 8 friends are dead
They died for nothing it could be said…