I was but a child then, although I didn't know it yet
I suspect I'm still a child now
Although we grow in intellect, learning that we must reflect
Mistakes that we have made, we make them yet again

And as time goes by
It seems in fact, the more we question: Why?
The less the world has interest to reply

Always grabbing hold of things, pretending that we're knowing things
None of us has power to command
I know that I loved you once, what good did it bring to us?
What meaning can it have, this love, a woman for a man?

And as time goes by
It seems in fact, the more we question: Why?
The less the world has interest to reply

What of all my questions then?
Are they a form of insolence?
For I am but a baby in my mother's ancient arms

And as the more I question: Why?
The less the world will give me in reply
I'll learn to stop my questions by and by