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  • Que ça soit du pain ou de la poésie
    Que tu sois arrivée ou lointaine
    Je ne resterais pas ta rose sauvage

    Je n’aime pas quand tu dis
    “merci mon amour” à le fin

    Que ça soit tôt ou tard
    Que tu sois partie ou venue
    Je ne resterais pas ta rose sauvage

    Your half-covered sleep toward the morning turned
    I am writing as though you were far away
    as though I might send these words by plane
    to some foreign place where you are happy
    & I am not
    Writing to you now as though
    there was no sadness between us

    Not joyous in this Paris town
    nor at ease with its gloire mystique
    I am writing as the last bateau mouche slides the Seine
    while the thousands under Eiffel desert le Champs du Mars
    & the final coach fades from its St-Lazare
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