La vie s'écoule, la vie s'enfuit

Raoul Vaneigem

Originale Versione italiana di Riccardo... Ciao Riccardo, mi chiamo Francesco... La versione italiana degli Anarchici Pistoiesi Translated from the French by... Deutsche Übersetzung von Riccardo ... Deutsche Übertragung von Michael ... Traducción al castellano desde ... Otra traducción al castellano ... Traduzione catalana da Prendre... Tradução portuguesa de Riccardo V... Traduzione neerlandese / Nederlands... Traduzione svedese (di S. Jacobson)... Traduzione danese da Sorte Fane... Μετέφρασε στα ελληνικά ο Ρικάρδος Βεντούρη... Traduzione polacca Versione in esperanto di Platano,... Version Jacques Marchais	La versione inglese di Jim Burrill (Eseguita accompagnandosi...
LIFE GOES BY, LIFE ESCAPES	LIFE PASSES BY AND LIFE ESCAPES
Life goes by, life escapes The days march by to the step of boredom Party of the Reds, Party of the Grays Our revolutions are betrayed	Life passes by and life escapes. Days just march on with boredom’s gait. The party of Reds, the party of Grays, Our revolutions are betrayed. The party of Reds, the party of Grays, Our revolutions are betrayed.
Work kills, work pays Time buys itself in the supermarket Paid time does not return Youth dies from lost time	Work kills, work pays, work has no heart. Time can be bought at the supermart. Paid-for time is time that’s lost. The death of youth is what it costs. Paid-for time is time that’s lost. The death of youth is what it costs.
The eyes, made for love to love, Are the reflections of a world of objects Without dreams and without reality We are condemned to images	Oh, what do loving eyes reflect? This world of nothing but objects. Nothing’s real and nothing’s dreamed, We’re stuck with just images, it seems. Nothing’s real and nothing’s dreamed, We’re stuck with just images, it seems.
Those who were shot, the famished Come towards us from the depths of the past Nothing has changed but everything begins And ripens in violence	Up from the depths of history, Come the wounded, the dead and the hungry. Nothing is changed, but everything Will start to ripen with a violent sting. Nothing is changed, but everything Will start to ripen with a violent sting.
Burn, dens of priests Nests of merchants, police officers On the wind that disseminates the tempest The days of festival harvest themselves	Burn down the priesthood’s hiding holes, The nests of cops and CEOs. The storm that brings such blust’rous squalls, And its festive days will be recalled. The storm that brings such blust’rous squalls, And its festive days will be recalled.
The guns are directed at us Against the bosses they will be turned No more leaders, no more State They profit from our battles	The gun that’s pointed at our heads Will turn against the boss, instead. No State, no leaders, left or right, To take advantage of our fights. No State, no leaders, left or right, To take advantage of our fights.