La vie est un cirque, and you are Pierrot
I am your muse, your vintage nude
In the alleys of Prague
Way back in the day, cheap wine in dirty glasses
We were rich beggars, in the alleys of Prague
Remembered by gods of the cold airs of France
Artists, were living lives within a trance
Dieing from plagues, but smiling happy as clams
Yet empty as ghosts, riding wings of birds
Selling ourselves to be sons and daughters of Mother Earth
To be called Bohemian Revolutionaries, our great painted life
It's a passage to out of here with no dirty coins
or lines for the night. In the dark alleys of Prague
We could see the gypsies dance, to be burned
To be born again, and again, and again..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.