COÛTE QUE COÛTE
En êtres savants pressentant la gloire
Nous connaissons tout de notre Histoire :
De ces trop nombreuses guerres fratricides
Qui répandent le bon sang sur les mains avides
De la naissance de l'attrayante industrialisation
Aux méfaits irréversibles du progrès sans restriction
De l'argent qui nous met la corde au cou, en épousailles,
Offrant à cette alliance un tabouret bancal nommé travail
De ces superbes dimanches passés sur les routes nationales
Où sont essaimés les magasins sous dérogations préfectorales
A nos grandiloquentes vies traversées à l'état de machines à sous
Que ce monde en banqueroute nous concède comme un atout.
Cependant, une question me tourne en tête jusqu'à se dire :
Celle de l'Homme, quand commence-t-elle à s'écrire ?
MY TRANSLATION
AT ALL COSTS
In scholarly beings sensing glory
We know everything about our History:
Since too many of these fratricidal wars
That shed the good blood on greedy hands
Since the birth of the attractive industrialization
To the Irreversible harms to progress without restriction
Since the money that brings us the rope neck, nuptials,
Offering this alliance a wobbly stool called work
Since these gorgeous Sunday spent on national roads
Where are swarming stores under prefectorial dispensations
To our grandiloquent lives crossing the state slots
That this world bankruptcy grant us like an advantage.
However, the question turns my head to say:
That of the Human, when will it begin to write?
We know everything about our History:
Since too many of these fratricidal wars
That shed the good blood on greedy hands
Since the birth of the attractive industrialization
To the Irreversible harms to progress without restriction
Since the money that brings us the rope neck, nuptials,
Offering this alliance a wobbly stool called work
Since these gorgeous Sunday spent on national roads
Where are swarming stores under prefectorial dispensations
To our grandiloquent lives crossing the state slots
That this world bankruptcy grant us like an advantage.
However, the question turns my head to say:
That of the Human, when will it begin to write?
