DESSINE-MOI UN MOUTON

Dessine-moi un mouton” (English: “Draw Me a Sheep”) is a 1999 song from the album Innamoramento recorded by French singer-songwriter Mylène Farmer, first in a studio version, then in a live version during her 1999 concert Mylenium Tour. The song was the only single from her third live album Mylenium Tour and was released on 5 December 2000. The title draws from a direct quotation to a well-known scene in French children’s book Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry. Although it was generally appreciated by critics and was a top ten hit in France, it had moderate success in terms of sales.

Originally, “Dessine-moi un mouton” should have been released as the second, third, or fourth single from the studio album Innamoramento. However, the song was released much later, and only in a live version to promote the concert album Mylenium Tour. Because of this discrepancy, some people considered the song to be, in fact, the sixth single from the previous studio album. Thus, with this rationale, Innamoramento is the second album in France to provide six top ten hits in France.

The promotional CD was sent to radio stations on 27 October, and the single was concurrently released with the live album to enable it to move straight to number one on the French Album Charts. All the remixes were produced based on the album version, not the live version. Quickly, French station NRJ heavily played the remix called ‘World is mine’ instead of the live version.

For the first time in her career, Farmer used her own drawings to illustrate the CD maxi and vinyl’s covers, on which she represented herself next to a sheep.

She developed the sheep theme very well in her later video of “C’est une belle journée” in 2002 when the Sheep became one of the main characters of the clip and a very cool one I must say! Something special also has happened while drawing the animated clip C’est une belle journée. Mylene met her L’autre – Benoit Di Sabatino – her loyal companion and a supporter for many years. In some way the mouton was drawn by him manifested itself to life taking Mylene’s loneliness away. Just like indented by the Little Prince. Even if it might not last… 🙁

Her book Lisa-Loup et le Conteur also includes it as an inspiring factor.

However, when the best of album Les Mots was released in 2001, the song was not included in the track listing, like other live singles “Allan” and “La Poupée qui fait non“. I wonder why….

As Saint-Exupery’s story, Le Petit Prince, is deeply incorporated within French mainstream popular culture, francophone audience clearly understood the allusion of the song to the literary work. Therefore, “Farmer does not tell the novella’s story in her song but uses the writer’s philosophy to draw inspiration”. Journalist Benoît Cachin said “Dessine-moi un mouton” deals with life, love, death, and is “a plea for childhood, imagination and insouciance”. Psychologist Hugues Royer considers that it is a song that “invites us to connect with our childhood”.

The video uses images from the 1999 tour, and shows Farmer performing the song sitting on a giant swing. For the television version, the entire part devoted to the presentation of musicians and the recalls were deleted but included in footage for the tour’s DVD.

The song was not promoted by the singer and was never performed on television but was only sung during the Mylenium Tour. As showed on the DVD of the concert, before the song begins, Farmer is sitting on the steps of the staircase, and she whistles. While the dancers make several acrobatics and play leapfrog, she performs the song, sitting on a big swing with two headers sphynx at both ends. A rain of silver sequins down from heaven on artists and the audience. After her performance, Farmer goes down the swing and presents the musicians.

“Dessine-moi un mouton” was generally well received by contemporary pop music critics and by Farmer’s fans who felt that the single was the best track of the album. The Belgian magazine La Dernière Heure considered this song absolutely identical to “XXL“, using many big guitars; it also said that it was very representative of Farmer’s work and was sensed as a future single since the album’s release. French magazine Instant-Mag considered that the singles’ sales were not aided by the CD single’s cover deemed too simple, and that the live version loses much of its energy compared to the studio’s one because of the choice of musical arrangements. Moreover, the remixes were generally deemed disappointing, unlike Farmer’s drawings used on the CD maxi which were more appreciated.

In France, the single entered the singles chart at number six on 9 December 2000, making Farmer’s 21st top ten hit in the country. The next week, it dropped to number 28 then continued to drop, and fell off the chart after nine weeks in the top 50 and 16 weeks in the top 100. In Switzerland, the song reached a peak of number 59 in the third week on 21 January 2001 and remained for five weeks in the top 100. In Belgium (Wallonia), the single started at number 25 in the Ultratop 40 chart on 16 December 2000, then climbed to a peak of number 11, dropped the next weeks and totaled twelve weeks on the chart.

The lyrics of the song Dessine-moi un mouton were written by Mylène Farmer. The music was composed by Laurent Boutonnat.

This title allows to highlight what Mylène likes in childhood. Perhaps she seeks to perpetuate in her this innocence which evaporates over the years giving way to the world of adults, “sad, without imagination “?

Reference to the   Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, published in 1943, in which we could read: ” The first evening I fell asleep on the sand a thousand miles from all inhabited lands. I was more isolated than a castaway on a raft in the middle of the ocean. So you can imagine my surprise, at daybreak, when a funny little voice woke me up. She said: “Please … draw me a sheep.”

Three remixes of the song were offered in 2000: “World is Mine Remix” and “Snakebite Beat Mix” produced by Quentin & Visa and the “Draw Me a Sheep Mix” by Hot Sly & Visa.

Hot Sly and Visa had previously released remixes of the singles Optimistique-moi and Innamoramento in 2000.

While Hot Sly is a well-known remixer, it has been impossible to find any information on “Quentin” or “Visa”. We can therefore wonder who is behind these nicknames.

Finally! This is probably what many fans said when they learned that Draw Me a Sheep would be the first single from the live album Mylenium Tour.

Since the discovery of the album Innamoramento in April 1999, many of these fans, Draw me a sheep was the inescapable hit of the album. With each new single, we found hope to see this title become the chosen one, which was ultimately not the case. We even remember that in May 1999 before the second single chosen was known (it will be Je te rends ton amour rumors announced that the shooting of a clip for Dessine-moi un mouton had started in the south of France featuring a crashed plane and Mylène with sheep. In fact, during this same period, Mylène was shooting the video for Je te rends ton amour under the direction of François Hanss. What’s up with all those rumors?

The title, for a live, will have correct radio rotations (top27 of the airplay radio France). The song is offered in strong rotations on NRJ, Voltage, Alouette, Top Music, Vibration and it is also broadcast on RTL or Europe 2.

Dessine-moi un mouton become available on December 05, 2000 (the same day as the Mylenium Tour in album and videos) in CD single, CD Maxi digipak and Maxi vinyl. It was also offered for the event evening of December 04, during which Fnac and the Virgin Megastore on the Champs-Elysées were on sale all the live media at Midnight.

The maxis allow you to discover the three remixes of Hot Sly, Quentin and Visa.

Dessine-moi un mouton (Live) reached 6th place in the top French singles in its first week before dropping very quickly, totaling around 80,000 copies in France. We are far from the hoped-for hit, but singles taken from live albums rarely become hits.

At the same time, the concert’s CD and VHS hit the charts.

Dessine-moi un mouton is present on the Innamoramento album (1999) and the live album Mylenium Tour (2000). It was not included in the best of Words. The clip does not appear on any commercial video medium.

The clip Dessine-moi un mouton Live comes from the recordings of concerts in Bercy on September 24, 25, 26 and 29, 1999.

Directed by François Hanss, it was broadcast for the first time on television on November 15, 2000.

Mylène is present on December 17, 2000 at the ” M6 Awards ” ceremony to receive the prize for the music video of the year for Optimistique-moi (an extract from the Mylenium Tour, Désenchantée is also broadcast) then on January 20, 2001 at the ceremony. ” NRJ Music Awards 2001″ for the prize for the best French-speaking female artist of the year. The reception of her is truly remarkable! The crowd goes wild and she has a chance to barely say a few words one of which was an announcement of Alizee…

Quentin Lambert has a lovely anecdote about the song HERE
I would like to talk about the man who inspired it all. The man I respect and love dearly for the book that defined my childhood and remains a source of wisdom for me through all my life…

Antoine Marie Jean-Baptiste Roger, comte de Saint-Exupéry, simply known as de Saint-Exupéry, was a French writer, poet, aristocrat, journalist and pioneering aviator. He became a laureate of several of France’s highest literary awards and also won the United States National Book Award.

“Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was born in Lyons in 1900, into a family of minor nobility. His father, Jean de Saint-Exupéry, who worked for an insurance company, died before Antoine was four, and the five Saint-Exupéry children were brought up in two beautiful châteaus—one, at Saint-Maurice-de-Rémens, belonging to a great-aunt, and the other, near Saint-Tropez, to their maternal grandparents. It was in the former, with its mysterious attics and handsome, wooded park, that Antoine created what he described as “the secret kingdom” of his childhood, his “interior world of roses and fairies.” All his life, he was dogged by nostalgia for his early years. Well into adulthood, he wrote, “This world of childhood memories will always seem to me hopelessly more real than the other.”

The little Saint-Exupérys were indulged by their mother, Marie, who was loving, pious, and unceasingly attentive. The children were notorious in the neighborhood for unruly behavior, and Antoine, with his head of golden curls, was the most willful and unruly of them all. In tune with the times, he was fascinated by early experiments in flight and, at the age of twelve, attempted to construct an airborne bicycle. He also read avidly—his particular favorites were Jules Verne and Hans Christian Andersen—and began composing poetry at an early age. This he did mainly at night, ruthlessly waking up his brothers and sisters and dragging them into his mother’s room in the small hours to hear him declaim his most recent composition. (It was a habit that continued in later life. He thought nothing of telephoning his friends at three in the morning, and while he was in North Africa during the war, he force-fed Benzedrine to his patient mistress so she would stay awake long enough to read through all five hundred pages of his work in progress.)

Unsurprisingly, the adult relatives of the Saint-Exupéry children regarded them as horribly spoiled, and intermittently did their best to impose discipline, which the children’s doting mother never could bring herself to administer. It was this disapproving attitude of aunts and uncles, Schiff suggests, that inspired the contempt of the narrator in “The Little Prince” for the grownup world. “I have lived a great deal among grown-ups,” he says. “I have seen them up close. That has not much improved my opinion.” Mme. de Saint-Exupéry, however, was the exception: her son saw her as the font of tenderness. “He wore this fierce maternal love as a sort of cloak wherever he went, pulling it more closely around himself as he aged,” Schiff writes.

Antoine failed to distinguish himself at school, failed again as a naval candidate at the École Bossuet in Paris, and, as a last resort, enrolled at the Beaux-Arts to train as an architect, showing, a fellow student remarked, as little aptitude for architecture as for dentistry. He supported himself on money that he borrowed from his mother, often lodging simply but eating lavish dinners in the grand houses to which his family name provided access. Even when he was established as a writer, Saint-Ex was never part of the international literary society in Paris—the world of “Stratford-on-Odéon,” of Pound, Hemingway, and Joyce (although when Stuart Gilbert, the translator of “Ulysses,” came to render “Night Flight” into English, he was so perplexed by the subtleties of the language that he turned to Joyce for help). Ever the man of action, Saint-Ex was impatient with intellectuals and uneasy with the claustrophobic company of the super-gratin littéraire, preferring his aviator colleagues; his publisher, Gaston Gallimard; and a few French writers such as Malraux, Maurois, and Gide. While he was living in Paris between sojourns abroad, he chose to conduct both his working and his social life in cafés, starting the day at the Deux Magots, then moving on to the Brasserie Lipp. But, however convivial the preceding hours, he usually finished the evening alone—as Schiff has it, “a drink at his elbow, a cigarette in hand, doing silent battle with a sheet of paper.”

In 1921, Saint-Ex received his call-up, and from the Strasbourg military base, where he was training, he wrote to his mother, “Maman, if you only knew the irresistible thirst I have to fly.” It is at this point, with his ascent into the air, that both Saint-Ex and Schiff’s book take off. For these were the great days of flying, with France magnificently preéminent. Even before the start of the First World War, France held more flying licenses than the United States, England, and Germany together, and by 1918 the French aeronautics industry was one of the biggest in the world. Saint-Ex was awarded his pilot’s license in 1922; his first flying job was with a commercial company, which specialized in taking tourists up for twenty-minute rides. After a brief period at this undemanding activity, he joined the Compagnie Latécoère the most ambitious of the country’s mail-carrying airlines, which became known as Aéropostale. France was then the second-largest colonial power, and Latécoère, with a fleet of Breguet 14s, was opening up a network of mail routes to French Morocco, to Dakar, and then to Buenos Aires, Rio, and Patagonia.

Nothing could have been better suited to the courageous, intransigent Saint-Ex than the life of a pilot with Aéropostale. The work was dangerous and demanding, the discipline rigorous, and the solitude unbroken. In his books, the descriptions of the hours spent alone in the cockpit are intensely evocative, as he recalls piloting his craft from Toulouse to Casablanca and Dakar, at the mercy of sandstorms, snow, and freak winds, flying low through mountain passes and over mile after mile of desert, where Moorish tribesmen shot at the tiny planes as though they were partridges. Although the Breguet 14 was the most reliable aircraft of the time, it was pitifully frail by current standards, with a wooden propeller, an open cockpit, and a range of well under four hundred miles; it had no radio, no suspension, no sophisticated instruments, and no brakes. Planes regularly broke down or crash-landed, and airmen were taken captive and held hostage for weeks at a time by tribesmen. Maps were crude, and pilots navigated by following landmarks—a row of trees, a farmhouse, a field, a river. It was easy to get lost in heavy rain or fog, or just in the dark, and weather predictions were often fatally unreliable. In “Night Flight,” for instance, the pilot, Fabien, very nearly fails to come through an unexpected storm:

With each new plunge the engine began vibrating so violently that the entire plane was seized with angry trembling. Fabien needed all his strength to control it. His head ducked far down inside the cockpit, he kept his eyes glued to the artificial horizon; for outside he could no longer distinguish earth from sky, lost in a welter of primeval darkness. . . . At this very moment the storm opened above his head and through a rift, like mortal bait glittering through the meshes of a net, he spied several stars. . . . At a single bound, as it emerged, the plane had attained a calm that seemed wondrous. There was not a wave to rock him, and like a sail-boat passing the jetty he was entering sheltered waters. . . . Beneath him, nine thousand feet deep, the storm formed another world, shot through with gusts and cloudbursts and lightning flashes, but towards the stars it turned a surface of snowy crystal.

After a year, Saint-Exupéry was made chief of the airfield of Cape Juby, in the western Sahara—probably the most desolate airstrip in the world. Never had he been happier. “I have a great need for solitude,” he wrote. “I suffocate if I live for fifteen days among the same twenty people.” He loved the wide spaces of the Sahara, and the silence:

There is a silence of peace when the tribes are reconciled, when the cool evening falls. . . . There is a midday silence, when the sun suspends all thought and movement. There is a False silence, when the north wind has died and insects, torn like pollen from the interior oases, arrive to announce the sandstorms from the east.

He loved the isolation and independence, and the long, lonely flights, which are memorably depicted in his first novel, “Southern Mail” (1929). He made friends with the nomad children, and he came to depend on the fierce esprit de corps that existed between members of the company. “His religion was the mail,” Schiff writes, “and in his devotion to it he was bound inextricably to his comrades.” It was during this period that his reputation as a writer was founded, and through his writing that “la Ligne” became known to the world.

After Cape Juby, Saint-Ex was assigned to South America, to take part in the opening of mail routes linking Buenos Aires with Rio, Patagonia, and Paraguay. Here, in the violent tempests and grand silence of the Andes, he found a romance every bit as potent as that of the African desert. For the rest of his life, he talked about his memories of Patagonia, of glaciers and Indians, and of the sheep on Tierra del Fuego, “who, when asleep, disappeared in the snow, but whose frozen breath looked from the air like hundreds of tiny chimneys.” Often he flew at night, and it was this nocturnal “battle with the stars” that animated “Night Flight,” his second novel. The book was an instant success with the public; a film was made of it; and Guerlain produced a scent, Vol de Nuit, which was dedicated to Saint-Exupéry and sold in a bottle emblazoned with propellers.

For all his courage and his instinct for adventure, there remained in Saint-Ex something immature, a tendency to childishness. In life, as in his writing, he harked back constantly to childhood. Schiff notes that he frequently gave way to fretful displays of temper. He thought it funny to drop water bombs from upstairs windows, and a favorite game consisted of rolling oranges down the keys of a piano, which made it sound like Debussy. He was brilliant at word games and card tricks—“He spent less time writing than he did picking out the ten of spades,” one of his editors lamented—and was expert at fabricating miniature helicopters from maple seeds and hairpins. He often illustrated his letters with cute drawings of himself in bed or with a toothache and dated them “I haven’t-the-foggiest-idea” or “the twentieth century.” In one he sketched the three parts of a journey—the last part a fat black square, “because it was nighttime.” He once excused himself to his American publisher for turning a chapter in late on the ground that his guardian angel had appeared and stayed to talk. (Schiff writes, “He could not very well have shown a guardian angel the door!”)

When it came to women, Saint-Ex fell for those with whom he could sustain his world of make-believe. His first serious love was Louise de Vilmorin, a minor writer and femme fatale, who, like him, was deeply nostalgic for an “enchanted garden childhood.” In her mother’s imposing house in the Rue de la Chaise, she told her stories, he recited his sonnets, and together they played at fairy prince and princess. But Loulou, for all her kittenish coquetry and otherworldly air, was a hardheaded Frenchwoman, and when the question of marriage arose Antoine’s lack of fortune easily outweighed the fantasies they had woven together in her top-floor room.

It was not until 1931 that Saint-Ex finally found a wife, Consuelo Gómez Carillo, who at first sight must have seemed like perfection. She was tiny and lovely and capricious. Seeing them together, a friend described the couple as a little bird perched on a huge stuffed bear, “that huge, flying stuffed bear that was Saint-Ex.” Once, when asked where she came from, the young woman winsomely replied, “I have come down from the sky, the stars are my sisters.” Her husband found this kind of thing charming—which was fortunate, as she had other traits that were less attractive. Consuelo was a mythomaniac of epic proportions, wildly extravagant, and ferociously jealous of her husband’s success as both writer and airman. (However, she enjoyed playing the role of celebrity widow when Saint-Ex disappeared for several days in December of 1935 during a highly publicized flight over the Libyan Desert; and after his death she cashed in by opening a restaurant called Le Petit Prince, over which she presided wearing a jaunty sailor’s cap with “Saint-Ex” in gilt letters on the peak.) Consuelo was bad-tempered, neurotic, flamboyantly unfaithful, and rarely on time. At a cocktail party in New York, Schiff relates, she passed the evening sitting under a large desk “from which a pale arm occasionally emerged, an empty martini glass affixed to its end.”

The Saint-Exupérys quarreled murderously and were always separating, but it was Consuelo to whom Antoine returned time and again, and without whom, he always felt, he couldn’t live.

Soon after the publication of “Night Flight,” in 1931, Saint-Ex’s career as a commercial pilot came to an end. In spite of Latécoère’s pioneering expansion, it had been forced into liquidation, and by August of 1933 there were no independent airlines in existence; they had been subsumed under the all-embracing Air France. Saint-Exupéry was by now a star, the Joseph Conrad of the skies. Although hopelessly irresponsible about money, and nearly always hard up, he made an adequate income from journalism and from propaganda work for the newly formed national airline. It was on a goodwill mission for France that, in 1938, he went to the United States to attempt a record-breaking flight from New York to Nicaragua. This came to a premature end with a crash landing in Guatemala City, from which he emerged alive but badly hurt.

In 1940, Saint-Ex returned to New York, intending to spend four weeks promoting the French war effort. In the event, he stayed two years, unable to see a role for himself in a fallen France. It was the most miserable period of his life. He was isolated and ill; he refused to learn English, and was crippled by fever, suffering the results of years of physical injury and neglect. A friend visiting him after an operation found him lying in a darkened room, silent and depressed, with a copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales beside his bed. Schiff reports that Saint-Ex was politically at odds, too, with many of his compatriots in exile, stubbornly remaining neutral, and perceived as a Pétainist in the face of the majority support for de Gaulle. He consoled himself with a number of love affairs, but increasingly he sought a cozy intimacy rather than sex. He saw one of his young women friends, Silvia Reinhardt, almost every evening for over a year, in spite of the fact that she spoke no French and he almost no English. Saint-Ex, arriving late at night at her apartment, would settle on the chaise longue in her bedroom and, as Schiff memorably describes the scene, “read to her from his unfinished work, tears rolling down his face as he did so,” while, “half-asleep on the floor, Silvia understood not a word.” When Consuelo eventually arrived in the States to join her husband, she helpfully spread it about that high-altitude flying had rendered him impotent.

All this time, Saint-Ex was desperate to return to Europe and active participation in the war. He finally left America in April of 1943, to join up with a French squadron in Algeria. Needless to say, he was its most experienced and obstreperous member. His fellow-pilots were proud of him; his superiors regarded him as the most difficult command in North Africa. Although he was technically too old and far from fit—“only good for card tricks,” his critics said—Saint-Ex insisted on being allowed to fly. He was drinking heavily to dull the pain of his old injuries and had to be helped into his aircraft: “His boots were laced for him, as he could not bend over. He had to be fitted into and extracted from the cockpit.” One pilot observed, “Saint-Ex was done for, and he knew it.” He made a number of sorties nevertheless, but he was both too impatient and too set in his ways to master the sophisticated technology of his aircraft, a United States Army Air Forces Lightning P-38. On one of his first missions, he damaged the wings of his plane, and a few days afterward, touching down at a hundred miles an hour and failing to pump his brakes, he ran off the end of the airstrip and crashed into an olive grove. The aircraft was wrecked, and Saint-Ex was grounded. Affronted and humiliated, he protested to his American operations officer, Leon Gray, “Sir, I want to die for France.” Gray replied, “I don’t give a damn if you die for France or not, but you’re not going to do so in one of our airplanes.”

Eventually, it was considered less trouble to restore Saint-Ex’s flying status than to deal with his furious entreaties. In May of 1944, he was posted to Sardinia, and shortly afterward he disappeared on a reconnaissance flight over southern France. When the war was over, he was proclaimed a hero, accorded in records “une mort glorieuse.” At the end of a star-chasing life, Consuelo said—giving her husband his due for once—he had taken a meteoric fall. His brave death assured the growth of his posthumous fame, in particular that of his final work of fiction, “The Little Prince,” written while he was in the United States and published in 1943.

That sad, sentimental story—with its quaint mop-top mannikin, on a visit to earth from his distant asteroid, impressing the stranded airman with his fey philosophy—became a seminal text for the sixties generation of dropouts and flower children. To others, it was unpalatably infantile. I never thought I could care about its author, but that was before I read Schiff’s book. “Saint-Exupéry” is a remarkable biography; indeed, it is impossible to imagine the job better done. It is balanced, perceptive, thoroughly researched, and exceptionally well written. The author is both sympathetic and clear-sighted, and by the last page I had the same feelings as Adrienne Monnier, the famous bookseller of the Rue de l’Odéon, about whom Schiff writes, “Initially Le Petit Prince struck her as puerile, but she found herself drenched in tears by the end. She realized she was crying not over the book but, belatedly, for Saint-Exupéry.”

“Lost in the Stars.”” The New Yorker December 1994

Three remixes of the song were offered in 2000: “World is Mine Remix” and “Snakebite Beat Mix” produced by Quentin & Visa and the “Draw Me a Sheep Mix” by Hot Sly & Visa.

more remixes: https://www.mylene.net/mylene/d_s_dessinemoiunmouton_versions.php

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lyrics with translation

Quelle solitude
De mourir sans certitude d'être au moins
Une particule
De vie, un point minuscule utile à quelqu'un
Quelle solitude
D'ignorer ce que les yeux ne peuvent pas voir
Le monde adulte
Isolé, un monde abrupt et là, je broie du noir
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le ciel est vide, sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Redevenir l'enfant que nous étions
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le monde est triste, sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Apprivoiser l'absurdité du monde
Quelle solitude
De se dire que la morsure du temps n'est rien
Le rêve est bulle
De vie un bien majuscule utile au chagrin
Déconfiture
Des pépins mais je veux croire en l'au-delà
Et vivre est dur
Toujours un choix mais je jure que le monde est à moi
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le ciel est vide, sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Redevenir l'enfant que nous étions
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le monde est triste sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Apprivoiser l'absurdité du monde
Il est à moi
Il est à moi
Il est à moi
Il est à moi
Il est à moi (le monde)
Il est à moi (le monde)
Il est à moi (le monde)
Il est à moi (le monde)
Le monde
Le monde
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le ciel est vide, sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Redevenir l'enfant que nous étions
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le monde est triste sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Apprivoiser l'absurdité du monde
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le ciel est vide, sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Redevenir l'enfant que nous étions
Dessine-moi un mouton
Le monde est triste sans imagination
C'est ça, dessine-moi un mouton
Apprivoiser l'absurdité du monde

What loneliness
To die without the certainty of being at least
A particle
Of life, a tiny point useful to someone
What loneliness
To ignore what the eyes can't see
The adult world
Isolated, an abrupt world and there, I crush the black
Draw me a sheep
The sky is empty, without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Become the child that we were
Draw me a sheep
The world is sad, without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Taming the absurdity of the world
What loneliness
To tell yourself that the bite of time is nothing
The dream is bubble
Of life a capital good useful to sorrow
Collapse
Glitches but I want to believe in the hereafter
And living is hard
Always a choice but I swear the world is mine
Draw me a sheep
The sky is empty, without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Become the child that we were
Draw me a sheep
The world is sad without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Taming the absurdity of the world
He is mine
He is mine
He is mine
He is mine
It's mine (the world)
It's mine (the world)
It's mine (the world)
It's mine (the world)
The world
The world
Draw me a sheep
The sky is empty, without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Become the child that we were
Draw me a sheep
The world is sad without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Taming the absurdity of the world
Draw me a sheep
The sky is empty, without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Become the child that we were
Draw me a sheep
The world is sad without imagination
That's it, draw me a sheep
Taming the absurdity of the world