transcript: I tell you about a time Which those younger than twenty Weren't able to know. Montmartre in those days, Hung its lilacs on walls Right up to our windows. And even if the humble pad That served as our nest Wasn't much to look at, It was there that we knew each other, Me, crying of hunger, And you, posing in the nude. La bohème,... la bohème,... It used to mean we were happy, La bohème,... la bohème,... We didn’t eat but once every two days. In the neighbouring cafés, We were just people Awaiting fame. And even 'though miserable, With our tummies tucked in, We never stopped believing! And when some pub, Would exchange a canvas For a good warm meal, We would then recite verses Gathered 'round the stove, And forget about winter! La bohème,... la bohème,... It used to mean “you are pretty” La bohème,... la bohème,... And we were all geniuses! It often times happened I'd spend sleepless nights In front of my canvas, Touching-up the drawing Of the line of a breast, Or the shape of a hip. And it wasn't 'till dawn that we'd finally sit in front of a café-créme, exhausted, yet ecstatic, as long as there was love, for each other, and for life itself! La bohème,... la bohème,... It used to mean, “we are 20 years old!” La bohème,... la bohème,... And we would live off …the air...of times! When a few days ago I went to re-visit My old address, I didn't recognize Neither walls, nor the streets, That witnessed my youth! At the top of a stairway, I looked for the workshop... …of which nothing remains! With its new “look”, Montmartre seems sad, And the lilacs are dead! La bohème,... la bohème,... We were young... we were crazy fools! La bohème,... la bohème,... It doesn't mean anything,... ...at all, ... ... anymore!
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