Le soleil embrasse les rides de mes yeux riants. Une embrassade aveuglante, les lunettes de soleil ne sont pas du domaine de l’accessoire ici. La chaleur est étouffante, pourtant on se sent bien. C’est une bouffée d’air frais dont a besoin le dormeur.
Regardez au loin, y voir la ligne d’horizon et sourire, la vie est belle. La misère est plus belle au soleil.
Malta, the island of the sun, Where crystal waters gently run. Its shores are lined with fishing boats, That bob and sway with the ocean's moats. The boats, they come in every size, With sails of red, blue, and white. Each one a story, each one a prize, Of journeys taken, of winds so bright. The fishermen, they know the sea, They've sailed its waters, wild and free. With nets cast deep, they bring forth treasure, Of fish and tales, beyond all measure. In harbors old, the boats are moored, Their timbers weathered, rough, and scored. A reminder of the sea's own power, Of tempests raged, in hours long hours. But when the day breaks, clear and calm, The boats set sail, without alarm. With sun on their faces, and wind in their hair, They journey forth, without a care. So here's to Malta, and its boats, That brave the sea, and all it floats. May their journey's always be smooth, And their catch be plenty, and always bountiful.