作词 : Prévert 作曲 : Unknown there are great puddles of blood on the world where is it all going? all this spilled blood? is it the earth that drinks it and gets drunk? funny kind of drunkography then, so wise, so monotonous, no, the earth doesn’t get drunk the earth doesn’t turn askew it pushes its little car regularly, it’s four seasons, rain, snow, hail, fair weather, never is it drunk it’s with difficulty it permits itself from time to time an unhappy little volcano it turns, the earth, it turns with its trees, its gardens, its houses it turns with its great pools of blood and all living things turn with it and bleed it doesn’t give a damn the earth it turns and all living things set up a howl, it doesn’t give a damn, it turns it doesn’t stop turning and the blood doesn’t stop running where’s it going all this spilled blood? murder’s blood, war’s blood, misery’s blood, and the blood of men tortured in prisons, and the blood of children calmly tortured by their papa and their mama and the blood of men whose heads bleed in padded cells and the roofers blood when the roofer slips and falls from the roof and the blood that comes and flows in great gushes with the newborn the mother cries, the baby cries, the blood flows the earth turns the earth doesn’t stop turning, the blood doesn’t stop flowing where’s it going all this spilled blood? blood of the blackjacked, of the humiliated, of suicides of firing squad victims of the condemned and the blood of those that die just like that by accident in the street a living being goes by with all his blood inside suddenly there he is, dead and all his blood outside and other living beings make the blood disappear they carry the body away but it’s stubborn the blood and there where the dead one was, much later, all black, a little blood still stretches coagulated blood, life’s rust, body’s rust blood curdled like milk, like milk when it turns, when it turns like the earth, like the earth it turns with its milk, with its cows, with its living, with its dead, the earth that turns with its trees, with it’s living beings, its houses the earth that turns with marriages, burials, shells, regiments, the earth that turns and turns and turns with its great streams of blood.
作词 : Prévert 作曲 : Unknown there are great puddles of blood on the world where is it all going? all this spilled blood? is it the earth that drinks it and gets drunk? funny kind of drunkography then, so wise, so monotonous, no, the earth doesn’t get drunk the earth doesn’t turn askew it pushes its little car regularly, it’s four seasons, rain, snow, hail, fair weather, never is it drunk it’s with difficulty it permits itself from time to time an unhappy little volcano it turns, the earth, it turns with its trees, its gardens, its houses it turns with its great pools of blood and all living things turn with it and bleed it doesn’t give a damn the earth it turns and all living things set up a howl, it doesn’t give a damn, it turns it doesn’t stop turning and the blood doesn’t stop running where’s it going all this spilled blood? murder’s blood, war’s blood, misery’s blood, and the blood of men tortured in prisons, and the blood of children calmly tortured by their papa and their mama and the blood of men whose heads bleed in padded cells and the roofers blood when the roofer slips and falls from the roof and the blood that comes and flows in great gushes with the newborn the mother cries, the baby cries, the blood flows the earth turns the earth doesn’t stop turning, the blood doesn’t stop flowing where’s it going all this spilled blood? blood of the blackjacked, of the humiliated, of suicides of firing squad victims of the condemned and the blood of those that die just like that by accident in the street a living being goes by with all his blood inside suddenly there he is, dead and all his blood outside and other living beings make the blood disappear they carry the body away but it’s stubborn the blood and there where the dead one was, much later, all black, a little blood still stretches coagulated blood, life’s rust, body’s rust blood curdled like milk, like milk when it turns, when it turns like the earth, like the earth it turns with its milk, with its cows, with its living, with its dead, the earth that turns with its trees, with it’s living beings, its houses the earth that turns with marriages, burials, shells, regiments, the earth that turns and turns and turns with its great streams of blood.
