One (U2)

Language: French

And then there are songs where I develop a bit of contempt for the writing while I'm going through the Babelfished version, unlike Rain During November. I think this one was at least moderately successful, in terms of being forced into a different topic than the original, but thus far, I'm just not that impressed with the material I get to work with.

Maybe it's just how many times I had to hear this song when it was new. All those videos (wasn't this the one where there was the blue, shadowy version, and the buffalo version? Was there a third? It seems like there was a third.), all that personal detail about a song ("there was a real divorce!") that's so impersonal it could fit a lot of break-ups. I got tired of it. Forgive me, Mr. The Edge.

But oh well. We should probably move it along, and bump up the ends of this amusement. May have to bump harder than usual.

-Jessi

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Is he becoming better, or the same? Do you feel
he will facilitate your thing, or
maintain that you're obliged to blame somebody?
I have one word for you.

Love is one "life need."
We obtain love, to divide up in the night:
him, it, you. Baby, don't worry about the sheets if you –

I disappointed you (or your mouth).
It's bad taste to leave it in you,
but you never want the love act made, which
I go without, with you, and, well, it's . . .

Of this too-late evening,
the past trails away outside, in the light.
We have him becoming better (or the same): you feel
he will facilitate the thing. On to it, you!
You obliged somebody to maintain your "blame." That word . . . .

Make you come here for remission,
make you come to raise Death.
Make you come here to play Jesus
with your leprous head.

One love life a night, where it is needed:
in love for the one we get.
Divide yourself, him, it. Don't you worry about the sheets, baby.

It's bad taste to leave you.
I disappointed your mouth, which never acts.
Made you want the love, and in I go.
With you or without you, who – ? Well, it's as it is. . . .

To the trail outside. This evening we have the light of years.
The past is in too late, but we are not the same ones we obtain.
We hold one to hold one; we pass.

Make you come here for remission,
make you come to raise Death.
Make you come here to play Jesus
with your leprous head.

Make you come here for remission,
make you come to raise Death.
Make you come here to play Jesus
with your leprous head.

You did not give me too much more than I asked,
and now all anything gets us is years.
We are not the same goods; we are wounded.
I have that one, but then do we still "do it to it?"

You love a temple of words, a higher love than law.
Is a temple higher than a love of law? I ask you.
You make me enter, to "love," but then is the creeping:
I can't hold y'all above what I obtained myself,
and when you obtain it, it's wounded.

You get one love life, to do what you . . . .
The one, the other, the blood brothers, a life with one of my sisters.
Life is not the same to one of us, but we are as one.
We get to hold what we hold.

One . . . life.

One.