ورژن فرانسوی Protège moiتا حدی به لیریک انگلیسیش شباهت داره و می تونم بگم که مضمونی دپرسیو و اجتماعی داره . تحلیل این لیریک رو به عهده ی دوستان می ذارم .

Protège moi

حمایتم کن

Once More With Feeling

singles 1996-2004

C'est le malaise du moment,

اینست بیماری زمان

L'épidémie qui s'étend,

بیماری همه گیری که به یکدیگر منتقل می کنیم

La fête est finie, on descend,

در پایان جشن هستی مان , شکست می خوریم

Les pensées qui glacent la raison.

و در آنجا منطق و امید مان یخ می بندد

Paupières baissées, visages gris,

پلک ها بسته می شوند , چهره ها خاکستری می گردند ,

Surgissent les fantômes de notre lit;

و ناگهان شبحی در بسترمان ظاهر می شود ,

On ouvre le loquet de la grille

چفت پنجره ی آهنین زندانی را می گشاییم

Du taudis qu'on appelle maison.

که خانه می نامیمش

Protect me from what I want

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

Protect me from what I want

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

Protect me from what I want

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protège-moi, protège-moi (x4)

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Sommes-nous les jouets du destin

ما قربانی تقدیریم

Souviens-toi des moments divins

به یاد می آوری آن لحظه های زیبا را ؟

Planant, éclatés au matin,

سر خوشی ها , درخشش صبح ها را

Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls.

و اکنون همه ی ما نتهاییم

Perdus les rêves de s'aimer,

در رویا ها و عشق به یکدیگر شکست خورده ایم

Le temps où on avait rien fait,

از زمانی که در آن مست می شدیم , چیزی باقی نمانده است

Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer

و از آن تنها یک عمر افسوس به جای مانده

Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls.

و اکنون همه ی ما نتهاییم .

Protect me from what I want (x3)

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protect me from what I want (x3)
(Protège-moi, protège-moi)

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protège-moi, protège-moi

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protège-moi de mes desires

حمایتم کن در آرزو هایم

Protège-moi, protège-moi
Protège-moi, protège-moi

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protect me from what I want (x3)

حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه می خواهم

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

(Protect me) Protect me from what I want (x3)

(حمایتم کن) , حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه نیاز دارم

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

(Protect me) Protect me from what I want (x3)

(حمایتم کن) , حمایتم کن برای رسیدن به آنچه نیاز دارم

Protect me, protect me

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن

Protège-moi, protège-moi

حمایتم کن , حمایتم کن .

Deadlight Holiday
Title: Deadlight Holiday

Fandom: Placebo

Pairing: Brian/Stef/Steve

Disclaimer: I know no one and own nothing

Summary: Brian decides he needs a break, but realises he's left the two people he cares about the most behind.

Warnings: Language, some strong.

i.

They weren't getting on your nerves. Not really.

You just needed some time to yourself. A moment in your busy, busy life to breathe, to reflect, to contemplate, to live.
You'd only be a week or two. Or three. Or four.

Alright, maybe they were getting on your nerves. But it wasn't their problem. It was the world. The whole world had become one massive, rotating problem. And it was infuriating.

Mindless chatter, drunken nights, weary people passing by, trundling vehicles, staring eyes, smoky rooms and endless talk of, "cheer up, Brian... get a grip, Brian... calm down, Brian... stop being such a cunt, Brian..."

You didn't know if you deserved half of it. You probably did. The problem was that you weren't really with it, most of the time.

Off in your own world, completely anaesthetised... either because your mind made the most self-conscious effort to shut the rest of the world out...

... or else because you were lying on the floor, mind drifting through clouds and colours, problems forgotten, yet somehow more apparent.

And when they looked at you, those two, you just couldn't stop the feelings of guilt from squirming venomously in the pit of your stomach.

It was clear that they could do without you.

There'd been too much sarcasm, too many bitter remarks, too much frustration. Too much anger (from Steve), too much sadness (from Stef) and too much stupidity (from you).

You'd be doing everyone a favour, getting away.

So you said it, one day. "I'm going to India."

They nodded mutually. Glad to get rid of you? Surely your relationship with them hadn't deteriorated to that extent, had it?

You all exchanged mild pleasantries and half-hearted smiles, and you said your less than fond goodbyes.

Should you have said more?

No. You weren't leaving forever.

It was just a holiday.

ii.

You arrived several hours later, clutching a bag, dark glasses shielding you from the glare of the sun and unwanted recognition. Shifting uncomfortably in your new surroundings you followed patchy instructions to your designated location.

Right, left, straight ahead, right, left, left…

You reached your destination, made your way up the stairs and entered your room. You sat quietly for a moment, sweat trickling down your pale skin, acclimated to the mild summers and dreary winters of England.

There was a knock on the door. "Your luggage Mr. Molko."

You waved the boy away dismissively and went to stand by your window, watching the rosy blush of evening paint the sky, suddenly foreign to your eyes.

You went out that night. Jet-lagged, morose and cynical, you still concluded that a drink ought to do you some good.

You somehow made it through the night with emphatic hand gestures and broken phrases. But you weren’t irritated as you sat at the bar, sipping your drink languidly. This was just what you wanted. An invisible shield between you and the world. And what stronger barrier was there than that of language and culture?

Alone, excluded and ignored. No one to tell you what to do. No one to get upset when you did something wrong. No one to chide you for being an idiot. No one to revere and worship you for simply being alive.

No one to love you.

Yes. That’s what you wanted. To cease to exist in the eyes of the world. To avoid hurting anyone ever again.

You finished your drink. How many had you had? You weren’t sure as you pushed some notes blearily at the barman, not even counting them. You staggered away, finding yourself outside your door in a surprisingly short space of time, unaware of how you’d arrived.

You fumbled for the keys and waded through the thick blackness of the room, legs dragging heavily in protest beneath.

You found your bed, somehow, and collapsed onto it, cool silk sheets soothing your hot skin, sticky with sweat and flushed with alcohol.

The silence pressed cruelly on your ears, ringing in your muffled head and thudding heart as you clutched the bed sheets, suddenly afraid that you were falling, and not knowing why.

You didn’t know why there were tears on your cheeks, either.

iii.

You awoke uneasily the next day, sunlight piercing the darkness in your head, shuttered in by your closed eyelids.

You opened your eyes one after the other, squinting against the obnoxious joy of the weather, incongruous to the gloom still hovering above you.

You frowned. Holidays weren’t supposed to be depressing.

You resolved to spend the rest of the day at the beach. The place was brochure-perfect. Warm sand, cool, clear sea lapping languorously at shining pebbles, clear skies punctuated by rays of burning light.

You lay down there for a few hours, feeling slightly out of place with your pale complexion amongst the tanned and toned bodies milling around you – an insignificant speck of pallor in a golden swarm.

You turned over, letting the sun wash across your back, eyelids fluttering closed under your dark glasses, toes curling into the burning sand, fingers fiddling absent-mindedly with the edge of your towel as your thoughts drifted.

For five days, you kept up this routine. Lazy, lonesome days at the beach, basking in the warmth, followed by anonymous nights of heavy drinking, trying to forget God knows what, before stumbling back to your room, wondering why you still weren’t any happier.

What was your fucking problem?

On the sixth day you awoke to a torrent of rainfall, grey swirling clouds and whistling winds.

You sat silently on your bed, watching the drops race each other across the misted glass, steaming with the humid hotness.

It seemed that you would have to spend the day engaging in a different activity.

You cast your eyes around your room and located the guitar you had brought with you. It was relatively cheap – not the best of guitars, but you couldn’t bear the thought of having your beloved ones back home stolen or lost or damaged.

You picked it up and attempted to play something, but the strings twanged falsely and reverberated horribly in the room. Frustrated, you threw it down onto the bed.

You then turned to your bedside table, to where your phone was blinking innocently at you. You didn’t know what you were hoping to see as you picked it up and stared at it, but somehow you knew you were hoping for something.

A message, perhaps? A missed call?

From whom?

From them?

No. Not really. Why would they want to talk to you now?

But then again, why hadn’t they contacted you yet? Weren’t they worried that they hadn’t heard from you in a week?

Maybe they couldn’t reach you. You were halfway across the globe, after all.

Or maybe they just didn’t care.

You toyed with the buttons for a while before placing the phone determinedly back into the drawer.

You didn’t think you’d ever felt more alone.

iv.

You weren’t sure how many weeks had gone past. Two? Three?

Maybe less, maybe more.

Why had they ignored you all this time?

Not that you were still thinking about them. Not at all.

It was just… you spent half your life with them. And when they weren’t there anymore, you realised how very much you missed them.

But you chided yourself for thinking such things. Fuck, you didn’t need them in every part of your life. You could do perfectly well without them, as they could without you, apparently.

So you spent your days doing nothing, speaking to no one and having no one speak to you. It was comforting, in a way, to be so alone, so removed from normal life that you couldn’t even remember what day it was, and how long you’d been sitting there.

For one small moment in time, the world didn’t revolve around you.

That night, you drank far too much. You went down to the bar, as was your routine for every evening now, and you sat alone, also routine.

Some particularly morose thoughts were swirling around in your heavy head, and it seemed they would be dulled by the excessive consumption of alcohol.

Somehow.

You ended up passed out in an alleyway somewhere, the pungent smell of sweat and rotting food seeping into your skin, a vague throbbing in your side, dimly aware that you could taste something like blood on your tongue.

Blurred faces and muffled voices and memories of hurt swam in and out of your head as you staggered to your feet, gingerly searching for the wallet you were sure you’d been carrying just a moment earlier.

It wasn’t there, obviously.

Groaning with self-loathing, anger and pain, you clutched your thudding head and stumbled towards a more lighted part of the town, following landmarks and recognisable signs to lead you to safety.

Of course, you didn’t have the keys to your room anymore. But the receptionist took pity on your gibbering state, and called upon the manager, just returning from dinner with his wife, who recognised you and gave you a replacement, while asking with concern if there was anything he could do.

Thanking them profusely, but refusing any help and feeling deeply ashamed, you turned to leave, but were stopped by the kind receptionist, who gestured towards the telephone on the desk.

"There was a call for you, Mr. Molko."

You froze. Turning to face her slowly, you asked who called.

She picked up a scrap of paper that was pinned to a board behind the desk and read the scrawled note. A certain Mr. Olsdal had called, who wished to leave a joint message from himself and a Mr. Hewitt.

They wanted to know if you were having a good holiday. They said that they were sorry for not contacting you before, but they’d been busy with all sorts of things, and they weren’t sure whether you wanted to be disturbed. They hoped the break was doing you good, they missed you, sent their love and were looking forward to seeing you when you returned.

You felt the emotion rise in your throat as you stood there, a shivering, bleeding, drunken wreck, yet a smile forming brokenly on your dry lips, all because of a simple message.

The receptionist touched your shoulder gently. "Good friends?" she asked.

"Good friends," you agreed, and walked away before you lost yourself in memories and tears.

v.
It was then that you wrote a song.

You had rediscovered the joy of playing during your time alone, but somehow, all your inspiration was locked away somewhere out of reach, and you had been most frustrated at your lack of creative energy.

But that morning, when you woke up, head throbbing dully, tongue thick and dry in your mouth, you knew that inspiration had struck.

You didn’t wash your face. You didn’t change your clothes. You simply pulled a chair up to the dresser and sat yourself down, exactly as you were, to stare into the mirror.

You looked a state. Your hair had stuck to your forehead with sweat, and some strands had hardened due to their coating in the dried blood that led a cracked trail down the side of your face. Your makeup had smudged into dark shadows around your eyes and your cheeks still seemed pale and sickly beneath the developing tan. You glared at your reflection, and it glared unflinchingly back. You pointed at it, and felt words falling from your lips, full of contempt and disgust.

You are one of God’s mistakes, you crying, tragic waste of skin.

Several hours later, you were lying on the beach once more, your guitar balanced on your knee as you hummed and strummed quietly to yourself, repeating the half-formed lyrics over the patchy melody, feeling increasingly more at ease as you lost yourself in the music, content in the knowledge that you were going to change.

You didn’t go out that night. You spent a few moments talking to the kind receptionist, communicating in an improvised combination of gestures, expressions and common words. How pleasing it was to have contact with others once more, not to be consciously withdrawn, willingly alienated or purposefully alone. She was all smiles and good humour, telling you about her life, her family, and her wonderful fiancé she was going to marry soon. You didn’t understand all of the details, but the glow of her face told you she was a kind-hearted, contented woman, and you couldn’t understand why you had passed her by every day with a glower and not a second glance.

You told her about your music. She hadn’t heard of the band, but she seemed impressed and asked if there were others who played the songs with you. You gestured to the note still pinned to the board. She nodded in understanding. She asked about them, the two who had called the other night. You told her your story, how you had met, how you had come together... you didn’t know if she could understand half of what you were saying, but she was listening obligingly, so you continued to talk, telling her of the years you’d all spent together, the high points, the low points, everything leading up to the present.

The present…

You stopped. Now what? You hadn’t spoken to Steve or Stef in weeks. Even back home you’d stopped talking. Communicating only when absolutely necessary, and going out with separate friends. The silence lingered as the receptionist looked at you questioningly. You shrugged and gave her a smile.

That was the end of the story so far.

You made your excuses to her, thanking her for having spent her time with you, and made your way up to your room. A soft peach-coloured light bathed the surroundings, your room neat and tidy, courtesy of the cleaner who passed by every Friday evening. You sat on your bed, cross-legged, trying not to disturb the crisp cream sheets, and placed a notebook on your knee.

The clock in the golden frame on your wall ticked the hours away as you scrawled down thoughts and ideas, anything to distract you from the gnawing in your stomach that was reminding you that something, or someone, was still missing.

You turned to your table, your phone still staring benignly at you from its resting place.

You needed to. It had been too long.

So you picked it up. Entered write message, and without really knowing what you were going to say, you began to say it.

Hi.

Miss you.

I’m sorry?

Love you.

Send to… Steve… Stef…

See you soon.

vi.

More than a month had passed.

And then it was time to come home. You said goodbye to the kind receptionist and the obliging manager, thanking them for the wonderful time you’d had.

It wasn’t quite a lie.

You put the dark glasses back on as you entered the airport. You checked the flight times and spent the next few hours sitting around, idly observing passers-by, waiting for the distinctive call to board.

Once on the plane, you secured your belt and ordered drinks. No matter how many times you’d done it, you still had a compulsive fear of flying.

Yet somehow, as the plane thundered down the runway and lifted into the clear skies, a feeling of contentment settled down on you. You were going home, and there were two people - two people who you wanted to see more than anyone else in the world - who’d be waiting for you when you arrived.

You slipped into a peaceful sleep as the plane engine rumbled a rhythmic lullaby, head lolling back against the cushioned seat.

It came as a surprise to you when you heard the electronic, nasal tone of the hostess echo through your dazed mind, telling all passengers that the plane would soon be landing, and could you please make sure your seatbelts were fastened?

As the plane rolled into its final destination and ground to a halt, you peered eagerly out into the darkening sky of England, familiar in its murky grey tone.

The passengers stumbled out one by one, some brushing briskly past, others yawning and trailing their way into the arrivals department. You pushed through them all, dodging past the slow movers, keen to get home as soon as possible.

You knew that they wouldn’t be there, at the airport. They knew you were coming home today, but they didn’t know at what time. And you had ordered a taxi to bring you back, anyway. But your heart still dropped a little when you noticed that the crowd of happy, eager, loving faces was distinctly lacking the self-conscious smile of a tall Swede, and the cheeky grin of a dark-haired Brit.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you got into your taxi and busied yourself with watching England flash past your window, splattered with rain. What better way to be welcomed back into the country than by the country’s typical weather?

As the car rumbled along, you fumbled in your bag and extracted your phone once more. You switched it on, not expecting the tell-tale beep of a received message, but nonetheless disappointed that there wasn’t one. So you sent them a short message instead.

Hi.

Back in England.

Home in about half an hour.

You pushed the phone back into your bag, knowing that otherwise you’d be checking it in vain every few minutes, because you weren’t sure they even wanted to see you.

vii.

The taxi pulled into your driveway. You thanked the driver, paid him and made your way into your house, lugging your bags and suitcases one by one behind you.

The place was dark and suffocating in its silence.

You looked at the telephone on the table. No blinking light, no message received.

You checked your watch. It had been more than half an hour.

You sat down on the wooden chair in your entrance hall and stared at floor. You stood up and checked your watch again. You sat down on the stairs and stared at the ceiling. Ought you call them? You wanted to, but did they want you to? Were they waiting for you, or were they simply ignoring you?

You pushed all pride aside and picked up the phone, dialling first one number, then the other.

You received no answer from either.

Feeling horribly downcast, you made your way into the living room, vaguely considering watching television and avoiding the mound of unpacking you had to do. You reached for the light switch and flicked it as you passed, intent on flopping down on the sofa, but freezing when you realised it wasn’t empty.

The scream that you were about to emit died in your throat as the faces of those occupying your space flickered into focus.

"Welcome home, Brian."

You passed a hand self-consciously through your hair as they smiled warmly at you.

They were smiling at you.

"Come on, then."

You followed the instruction and moved towards them slowly, almost cautiously. You didn’t know what to say. Months of not talking to each other, months of barely communicating… had you really forgotten how to speak to them?

No. But you didn’t need to remember, either.

Suddenly letting go of all reserve and memories of bad times, you threw yourself into their embrace, babbling madly about how much you’d missed them, and how much you’d changed, and how it was all going to be different and much, much better.

They held you, stroking your hair soothingly, listening to you ramble and sob, telling you that everything was fine.

You clutched Steve’s shirt and huddled into Stef’s arms, refusing to let either of them go.

After a moment had passed, Steve nudged you, asking if you wanted to stay in or go out that night.

You shook your head vigorously to the latter. No. You wanted to stay in, stay with them.

Steve looked over your head at Stefan, who smiled his agreement

So you stayed in that night.

You talked for hours, all of you together, recalling memories, sharing experiences and telling stories.

Sometimes you fell silent, fingers still laced in the folds of Steve’s shirt while Stefan ran his thumb back and forth over your cheek. And maybe the silences were even better than the talking, because in the comfortable quiet you could feel the unspoken connection between the three of you, vibrant and strong, still linking you back together after all this time.

The evening wore on, and you could feel their eyelids closing against your skin as they continued to hold you close. Your heart was sore as you watched them drift away, heads angling further down as tiredness overcame them. Your heart was sore because it was filling with so much emotion after being so dry for so long. It was expanding painfully in your chest and pushing into your throat with an overwhelming force as you watched their breathing grow soft and slow, hands and arms tangled around you, sitting comfortably between them.

How you had missed them, and how you regretted the time you wasted, the mistakes you made, the hurt you caused, the doubts you’d had…

"Hey."

You looked up to see two pairs of eyes, gently creased with concern, focusing on you.

"Want us to leave you now?"

You shrugged at first, not wanting to impose yourself on them any longer, then you changed your mind and shook your head. You couldn’t let them go. Not tonight. Not yet.

So they stayed. They stayed for you.

And as you drifted off to sleep between two pairs of comforting arms and two warm bodies pressed lovingly against you, you smiled quietly to yourself, realising with enlightening clarity that really, nothing else mattered but this.