In the city of flowers, those who saw him pass said,
that perhaps he had drunk too much, but for him it was normal.
Someone thought it was a problem with women,
another said just like Marilyn Monroe.
They carried him away by the two hundred,
too bad he was alone when he left.
The night they took the wine and washed our road.
Who killed that young angel who roamed without a sword?
And the television man said:
"No tear should go to waste, after all,
what is more beautiful than life? Spring has almost begun."
Someone remembered that he had debts,
whispered under his breath that was the reason.
He was full of tranquilizers, but he wasn't a bad boy.
The night they took his hands
and used them for a louder applause.
Who killed the little prince who didn't believe in death?
And far away, one can say anything,
not that silence hasn't been observed.
The correspondent of the music page wrote:
"Everything has been paid."
They found themselves behind the stage,
with sweaty eyes and hands in pockets,
everyone said, "I was his father!",
as long as the show didn't end.
The night everyone went out for dinner
and hummed "La vie en rose."
Who killed the porter’s son,
who was in a hurry and didn’t stop?
And so it was the end of the game,
with friends who came from afar,
to lay a rose on the crime report,
to turn a blind eye, to shake a hand.
Some still remember him as he lights a cigarette,
others made a monument of him
to forget a little faster.
The night they took the wine and washed our road.
Who killed that young angel who roamed without a sword?
