New Year's Day, it returns too often.
I do not know how the time flies.
The first of May hardly has sprung
before a new sprig of lily of the valley pokes through.
The fourteenth of July—I forgot all about it
and here are its lanterns lighting the night.
And Halloween that comes around as a death knell
for all those who will not be returning.
A year—another anniversary
of a morning without light
when you took off like a bird.
A year, one year more, my beautiful,
to blow out your candles
and eat your cake alone.
New Year's Day, it returns too often.
I do not know how the time flies.
Easter Day, that returns like the day,
the first one when we made love.
And Pentecost, that seems like just yesterday
when I discovered the sea at Tréport.
And All Saints Day—there it returns
with a chrysanthemum in its hand.
A year—another anniversary
of a day that will make me
cry when I should smile.
A year, one year more, my beautiful,
go blow out the candles
of your memories.