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Mylène Farmer - Désenchantée
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Mylène Farmer - Désenchantée

Nager dans les eaux troubles des lendemains.
Attendre ici la fin.
Flotter dans l'air trop lourd.
Du presque rien.
À qui tendre la main?

Si je dois tomber de haut,
que ma chute soit lente.
Je n'ai trouvé de repos
que dans l'indifférence.
Pourtant, je voudrais retrouver l'innocence,
mais rien n'a de sens, et rien ne va.

Tout est chaos à côté.
Tous mes idéaux: des mots abîmés.
Je cherche une âme qui pourra m'aider,
je suis d'une génération désenchantée, désenchantée.

Qui pourrait m'empêcher
de tout entendre,
quand la raison s'effondre?
À quel saint se vouer?
Qui peut prétendre
nous bercer dans son ventre?

Si la mort est un mystère,
la vie n'a rien de tendre,
si le ciel a un enfer,
le ciel peut bien m'attendre.
Dis-moi, dans ces vents contraires, comment s'y prendre?
Plus rien n'a de sens, plus rien ne va.


Chaos, chaos, chaos
Chaos, chaos, chaos



Swim in the troubled waters of tomorrow.
Wait here for the end.
Float in the too heavy air.
Almost nothing.
Who should I reach out my hand to?

If I must fall from height,
may my fall be slow.
I found rest
only in indifference.
Still, I would like to find innocence again,
but nothing makes sense, and nothing works.

Everything is chaos next to me.
All my ideals: broken words.
I'm looking for a soul who can help me,
I am from a disappointed, disappointed generation.

Who could stop me
from hearing everything,
when reason collapses?
To which saint should we devote ourselves?
Who can claim
to rock us in the belly?

If death is a mystery,
life is not tender,
if heaven has a hell,
heaven can wait for me.
Tell me, in these contrary winds, how to go about?
Nothing makes sense any more, nothing works.


Chaos, chaos, chaos
Chaos, chaos, chaos

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