This, no song of ingenue
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This, no ballad of innocence
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This, the rhyme of a lady who
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Followed ever the natural bents
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This, a solo of sapience
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This, a chantey of sophistry
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This, the sum of experiments, -
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I loved them until they loved me
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Decked in garments of sable hue
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Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents
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Wearing shower bouquets of rue
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Walk I ever in penitence
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Oft I roam, as my heart repents
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Through God's acre of memory
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Marking stones, in my reverence
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"I loved them until they loved me."
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Pictures pass me in long review, -
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Marching columns of dead events
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I was tender, and, often, true
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Ever a prey to coincidence
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Always knew I the consequence
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Always saw what the end would be
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We're as Nature has made us - hence
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I loved them until they loved me
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Princes, never I'd give offense
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Won't you think of me tenderly?
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Here's my strength and my weakness, gents -
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I loved them until they loved me
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Ballade At Thirty-Five
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| Carla Bruni |
