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The lament of the Butte
Atop Rue Saint-Vincent
A poet and a stranger loved each other for a brief moment
But he never saw her again
He composed this song
hoping that his stranger would hear it
One spring morning Somewhere around the corner of a street
The moon too pale
Places a tiara
On your red hair
The moon too red
Splatters your skirt
Full o' holes with glory
The moon too pale
Caresses the opal
Of your jaded eyes
Princess of the street
Be welcome
In my wounded heart
The stairs of the Butte
Are hard on the destitute
The sails of the windmills
Protect the lovers
My little beggar gal
I feel your little hand
That searches for mine
I feel your chest and slender waist
I forget my sorrow
I sense on your lips
The feverish scent
Of a poorly nourished child
And under your touch
I feel a euphoria
That annihilates me
The stairs of the Butte
Are hard on the destitute
The sails of the windmills
Protect the lovers
Why, here comes the rain
The moon clears off
The princess.too
Under the moonless sky
I cry in the dusk
My dream vanished...
Elian E.✕
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