I worked a whole year on my knees and, finally,
I succeeded to rest
Up on my feet!

How can I tell you I have broken all the demons,
On any job they asked me to do,
Because it's not for anyone to burn it 12 hours a day,
Where the world wants you a bodybuilder not a poet,
Where you are under siege in the heaviest battle of all.

How can I tell you, it's a mighty world where you don't have
Even the minimal time to die...
A world where many are tired of living,
Before they know what's fatigue.
A world in which we die of stupidity,
Because we do'nt know how the hell to pretend we live.

Yes, many have expired, while others are in line
To get tickled under their chin,
Or measure the bare part of the glass,
While the poor folks resist
Even to joy in their great sadness.

So what can I do I join the poet this quiet lunatic, this widow
For which many lovely women have died,
For the one that all the work finaly makes sense,
And death itself dies of envy and resentment.

Remember next time we meet
This is the active rest we kneeld for,
In which we stand tall,
Up on our feet,
In which joy will put an end to death itself,
In the heaviest battle of all!