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Born in a sorry cot, left on the stairs of the cold stone; Damned to be scorned, in darkness, damned to be alone; Taken by the Church, his soul will be slave of God; In the belfry's beauty is his figure something odd.
We see the hunchback in Notre Dame Dancing on the tallest towers
Arcades and spires, filling his heart, Deep like the choir, fine like the art Is the place my cell, is it? Is God's home my hell? Oh, my body prisions my poor soul, Until I toll!
I am grim, full of gloom In my dim gothic tomb But the bells in my heart chime for ever With the ding that belongs To the king of their songs I'm the sound of Notre Dame
In the Wheel of Life he is a horror for the crowd, When will be the time he'll see the sun between the clouds? Looking at the bells he thinks about his tragic fate Wants to be a rock or metal like his souless mates
We hear the hunchback in Notre Dame Crying on the tallest towers
Gargoyles and columns, his relity; Chants wich are solemn, his agony Is this place my cell, is it? Is God's home my hell? Oh, my body imprisons my poor soul Until i toll!
I am grim, full of gloom In my dim gothic tomb But the bells in my heart chime for ever With the ding that belongs To the king of their songs I'm the sound of Notre Dame
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