I speak to you of a period
That those who are under twenty
Couldn't know a thing about
Montmartre, at that time
Was hanging up its lilacs
All the way up to our windows

And if the humble little studio
That was like our nest
Didn't look like much
It's there that we met
Me, when I was starving
And you, posing naked for me

Bohemia, bohemia
It meant
That we are happy
Bohemia, bohemia
We only ate
Every other day

In the nearby cafes
There were a few of us
Who were waiting for glory
And though we were miserable
And our stomachs empty
We never stopped believing in it

And when some bistros
In exchange for a good hot meal
Would take one of our canvases
We would end up reciting verses
Huddled around the stove
And forgetting all about the winter

Bohemia, bohemia
It meant
That you are beautiful
Bohemia, bohemia
And we all had a touch of genius

Often, I would end up
Stood in front of my easel
Spending countless sleepless nights
Retouching the drawing
Of the line of a breast
Of the curve of a hip

And it was only in the morning
That we would finally sit down
In front of a coffee with cream
Exhausted but delighted
What love we had for each other
What love we had for life

Bohemia, bohemia
It meant
That we're twenty years old
Bohemia, bohemia
And we were living the spirit of our time

When, one day, out of the blue
I go take a stroll
Along by my old address
I can't recognize them anymore
Neither the walls nor the streets
That saw my younger days

At the top of the stairs
I'm searching for a workshop
Of which nothing remains
Under its new decor
Montmartre seems forlorn
And all the lilacs have died

Bohemia, bohemia
We were young
We were wild
Bohemia, bohemia
It doesn't mean
Anything anymore

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