| Everything will be chic | 
| Asphalt dries under the tires. | 
| Breathe your freshness on me, | 
| Ask me how I'm so gentle. | 
| It will be non-stop | 
| My melancholy is automatic. | 
| Pedals float underfoot | 
| I don't understand everything, where do I go. | 
| Everything will be tip-top | 
| Follow the light of two headlights. | 
| Washing the dust-binding | 
| Antennas in polyethylene, | 
| You are so alone, but Flight does not require a couple. | 
| Forward, from Venus itself | 
| On your white galley. | 
| With the dawn you will be somewhere | 
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta. | 
| To all those who climbed into your summer, | 
| There are no nerve cells. | 
| I become pure light. | 
| With the dawn you will be somewhere | 
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta. | 
| To all those who climbed into your summer, | 
| There are no nerve cells. | 
| I become pure light. | 
| Everything will be tip-top | 
| A mixture of two poisons in a glass. | 
| Access denied simply | 
| You are higher than the stars. | 
| Just seven notes | 
| To master the distance. | 
| Catch the memories | 
| Sing, ignite. | 
| Everything will be chic | 
| The comet wags its tail | 
| But I don't want tantrums | 
| Let's burn out in the atmosphere. | 
| It's going to be a grieving night | 
| But the morning will still come. | 
| The walls are painted about this, | 
| All the antennas are screaming about it. | 
| With the dawn you will be somewhere | 
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta. | 
| To all those who climbed into your summer, | 
| There are no nerve cells. | 
| I become pure light. | 
| With the dawn you will be somewhere | 
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta. | 
| To all those who climbed into your summer, | 
| There are no nerve cells. | 
| I become pure light. |