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Nothing one can do about it

Like a thread between the one and the other
Invisible, it imposes its connections
in the wanderings of the subconscious (méandre means a turning in a river's course, the same word probably exists in English, but I preferred the more literal 'wandering')
It walks with impunity
 
And everything trembles a little bit
And the rest fades out
Only in our bellys
A knot, a hunger.
 
It makes a king from a slave
And can damn the saints
The honnest man or the sage
And nothing one can do about it
 
And one resists it, one builds walls
Happy times (lit.: happinesses, but that's bad English of course), well sorted photographs
Like a terrorist it pierces armour
One moment everything is wiped away
 
You crawl and you spy
And you lie words
You read her friends (not sure about this verse)
(And) you love her paintings
 
And you try to cross her path
Suddenly you are fifteen (again)
Everything changes its foundation
And nothing one can do about it
 
It invites itself when one doesn't expect it
When one believes in it, it flees away allready
My brother who, one day, tasted it
Never again will you recover/heal
 
It leaves us empty
And more dead than alive
[It's] it [that] decides
(while) one only pretends
It chooses its paths (?)
Its coming and going
That's the way of love
And nothing one can do about it.
 
Оригинален текст

Et l'on n'y peut rien

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Jean-Jacques Goldman: 3-те най-преглеждани
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