There are rare flowers which perish of boredom,
Women with pallid complexions who cry during the night,
And then some fixed ideas which obstruct the mind,
And return constantly, deceitful without making noise!
There is everything that we see and then what we guess,
The silent grief, which doesn't confess its name,
The hidden despair that we surprise by luck
At a loved soul, in the secret of a look!

There is everything that we say and also what we don't tell
By calculation, by modesty, for not making pain,
But who gnaws therein like a worm in a fruit!

There are children's laughter, and their mothers who smile,
And then some fixed ideas which obstructs the mind,
And return constantly, deceitful every night!

Alain Rozanès

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