Autoreflet Lyrics English Translation by Grand Corps Malade
I see a family man, I see a man in love
I start with the essential, as a rigorous author
I grew up in the suburbs, I sang it a cappella
And this self-reflection could even stop right here
I’ve become a bit of a poet, not really a writer
I’ve left some useful texts and many futile writings
I have open rhymes, a somewhat unsteady silhouette
To keep the balance, I cling to vocal cords
Unclassifiable discipline, so let’s say lyricist
An improbable career, sometimes parodied
Inflammable inspiration, hungry optimism
Honorable stories from rough neighborhoods
I hadn’t seen the artistic fiber’s signals
It’s later, prolific, that I picked up the pens
I’ve flirted with the idea that my poems wander
I write, therefore, I am, and I am Grand Corps Malade
I’m a bit of a poet, but I know few classics
I found my models in the music industry
I haven’t opened many poetry collections
But I’ve opened my ears in bohemian atmospheres
I contributed unintentionally to popularize slam
This oratory art in bars that touches the soul
I wrote as an urgency hundreds of quatrains
I wrote about my sorrows to silence the grief
Victories in tournaments, forgetting the sneaky
It’s for me, that’s why I knew how to bet on myself
I placed my texts everywhere, had a tenacious voice
In hipster bars, in filthy squats
I met musicians who put notes without hesitation
On my lyrics, we made songs
From the search for stage fright, I became a slave
And I crave the stage as you crave a high
I love the stress of my concerts, not the glamour of my colleagues
What success bestows, I often prefer the opposite
From showbiz arise practices that won’t be my choice
I won’t bite the hand that feeds me, but I won’t take a second helping
I write when I feel good, I write when I feel bad
When life disappoints me a little and when everything is normal
I write only for others, I want to be heard
I write to understand the world, especially when it’s tense
Music is a very individual collective art
I write about my reflection like a duo and a duel
My writings are optimistic, I don’t have to force it
But my bright side and my dark side haven’t divorced
I often have a cheerful eye, sometimes a sad look
In the norm or off the beaten path, is it the fate of the artist
Artist… I still don’t really know if I understand the term
I feel like a cowboy still surprised by his western
I write about the present, very rarely about the future
But without being oppressive, sometimes the past inspires me
I thank it at the caesura, with its touch of magic
I rhyme my present with my nostalgia
I write joyful verses and depressing rhymes
I’ve emptied so many pens and printer cartridges
I have a few ash-colored hairs but incandescent inspiration
Despite the wrinkles on my forehead, I have the pen of a teenager
I write on my phone, poems in chorus
In notebooks, diaries, and then I write orally
I’ve written less than some, but more than average
And I hope to maintain this pace when my pen is older
I write about feelings and intimate thoughts
I write about society when it seems legitimate
About our sometimes tired and surrounded France
When the powerful disregard the people, my ink is concerned
I also write about enthusiasm and beautiful potentials
About the lights in the sky, essential values
I’m curious, I like people, I see the glass half full
It’s not a legend, I see the dream within reach
From my life in the suburbs, I’ve kept a sort of ethic
From my sports life, I’ve kept the team spirit
I have several existences I remember every day
From my life of recklessness, I’ve kept some scars
At the time, out of modesty or not to believe in despair
I managed my sadness and cried away from sight
I think I didn’t want to add drama to drama
I’m not insensitive, but I’ve exhausted my tears quota
In this life, I came, I lost, I won
And I am what I am thanks to what I’ve experienced
I compensate mentally for muscle absences
I’m totally grateful for the working-class neighborhoods
I’ve been around the poor, the hipsters, the armored
The disheveled smiles, the distinguished greetings
I prefer the wounded, the rebels, the odd ones
I can live without my suburb, but not without its residents
It’s with them that I’ve laughed, reflected, and grown
I feel more mature, but I’m not Gandhi either
But I often observe around, silence as armor
And I take so much distance that I often have my back against the wall
From my eventful youth, I’ve kept the art of banter
I often try to hold back because not everyone is a fan
I’ve probably matured a bit, but to tell the truth
I still have a little problem with too much authority
I have so many projects that I won’t have enough life
I’d have to be reincarnated to fulfill all my desires
I want to visit the other side of the rainbow
But at the same time, I want to get bored because boredom brings counsel
I’m 20 years old in my head, 120 years old in my body
But fortunately, the two often agree
To open their eyes, ears, and hands
Find a common rhythm and trace my path
I keep my childlike eyes facing all that happens to me
And to keep this luck, I apply and act
An enormous privilege, without the light distorting
I feel it in every hormone, I have an extraordinary job
But even at the Zenith, I won’t be a braggart
You’ve understood, my true first job is being a dad
My two sons and my wife, it’s my first passion
Seeing them laugh at my jokes is the most beautiful ovation
I see a family man, I see a man in love
I finish with the essential, as a rigorous author
I grew up in the suburbs, I sang it a cappella
And this self-reflection will truly stop here