Translation of the song lyrics Possédé - Emma Peters, Crisologo

Possédé (original)

Maman m’répète d’faire attention à mes potes
Papa m’répète «L'respect, c’est pas qu’dans les poches»
Et moi, j’me répète d’jamais baisser les bras
On y arrivera si dans l'équipe, y a qu’des braves

On dirait qu’on est possédés
Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété

On dirait qu’on est possédés
Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété

Et ma bella me dit qu’je suis beau
Quand j’sors en haute couture française
Et ils viendront dire qu’j’suis faux
Mais ils savent, quand je parle j’suis sensé

Tu vas regretter, yeah, tu fais des manières
On veut la maille donc fais tes bails
Rien à fêter, yeah, des fois, j’suis ailleurs
On dirait qu’on est possédés

Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété
On dirait qu’on est possédés

Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété
On dirait qu’on est possédés

Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété
On dirait qu’on est possédés

Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê
Eh mon pote, on va pas céder
J’suis mal, la haine quand j’suis pété
Mais mon pote on va pas céder

On est possédés
Le sale, l’argent dans les tes-tê

Possédé (translation)

Mother, an oracle in a dim-lit room, warns me—beware the shadows cast by friends,
Father, grave as a judge, repeats: respect is no coin to be stashed in velvet pockets.
And I—my own echo—swear never to let my arms fall in surrender’s pale embrace,
We will ascend, if only the brave tether the ropes of our battered crew.

We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,
Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.

We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,
Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.

And my bella, with eyes like dusk’s velvet, calls me beautiful,
When I stride draped in the proud cuts of French couture,
And the jackals will gather, whispering—he is false,
But they know: my words turn stone and wind, ring true as iron shod.

You, with your masks and courtly airs, will taste remorse—
We hunger for gold, so ply your silent trades beneath the moon’s indigo gaze.
Nothing to toast; at times my spirit wanders between this world and the next,
We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,

Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.
We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,

Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.
We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,

Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.
We march as if a fevered spirit holds our souls in thrall,

Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls,
Brother-in-arms, the night is fierce, but we shall not bend beneath her weight,
I burn—hatred brimming like storm-wrack when drink has loosed my tether.
Yet brother, let storms break, we will not yield,

We are the possessed,
Grime of the world, and silver pieces swirling in fevered skulls