| My aunt used to live in Paris. |
| I remember she used to come home and she would tell us these stories about being abroad. |
| And I remember she told that she jumped into the river once. |
| Barefoot.
|
| She smiled... leapt, without looking
|
| And tumbled into the Seine
|
| The water was freezing
|
| She spent a month sneezing
|
| But said she would do it again
|
| Here's to the ones who dream
|
| Foolish as they may seem
|
| Here's to the hearts that ache
|
| Here's to the mess we make
|
| She captured a feeling
|
| A sky with no ceiling
|
| The sunset inside a frame
|
| She lived in her liquor
|
| And died with a flicker
|
| I'll always remember the flame
|
| Here's to the ones who dream
|
| Foolish as they may seem
|
| Here's to the hearts that ache
|
| Here's to the mess we make
|
| She told me: a bit of madness is key
|
| To give us new colors to see
|
| Who knows where it will lead us?
|
| And that's why they need us
|
| So bring on the rebels
|
| The ripples from pebbles
|
| The painters, and poets, and plays
|
| And here's to the fools who dream
|
| Crazy as they may seem
|
| Here's to the hearts that break
|
| Here's to the mess we make
|
| I trace it all back to that
|
| Her, and the snow, and the Seine
|
| Smiling through it, she said
|
| She'd do it... again |