Saint Lucy
We landed one day, my son and I, in 1974 on the island of Saint Lucia in the Caribbean. We had taken the wrong plane. While waiting to be repatriated, which wasn't easy, we were hosted by a local guy who lived in a hut with five brothers and sisters, each from a different father. Their mother had left. He was the head of the family. We slept on cardboard boxes. In the evenings, he would go to work at the restaurants. He was a fire-breather. I said:
- If you want, I'll go with you.
- But, do you know how to breathe fire?
- Of course, in France all astrophysicists learn to breathe fire.
- Oh really...
I won't explain how it's done because I'm afraid it might cause accidents. To tell the truth, astrophysicists who know how to breathe fire are still quite rare. Reeves, in particular, doesn't know how to do it. It's true that he has a beard, which increases the risk anyway.
Saint Lucy, think of me In my wooden cabin My God, don't leave Poor black child abandoned I hear my brothers and sisters crying Over there, Saint Lucy doesn't care If you're cold, if you're hungry And if you have black skin Then you have no hope I hear my brothers and sisters screaming Over there, white hat, silk robe Here the white man is king You go out in the rain In the mud, in the night I hear my brothers and sisters struggling Over there, Saint Lucy, it's over Tomorrow I'll be gone On the white man's boat It's there, waiting for me I see my brothers and sisters coming Over there