When I go to the florist
I only buy lilacs ...
If my sad song singing
It is that love is gone.
As I was, somehow,
Love those flowers,
I walked through the door,
By the Porte des Lilas.
Lilacs, there was little,
Lilacs, there were none,
Z'étaient all war dead,
Passed from life to death.
I came across a beautiful
Which flourished a little there,
I wanted to impress upon it
My love for lilacs.
I scored a white cross
The day we flew,
Clinging to a branch,
A sprig of lilac.
Poor love, hold the bar,
The time will go through it,
And time is a barbarian
In the kind of Attila.
Hearts to where his horse passes,
Love does not grow back,
Across space
He made the desert under his feet.
So, our loves are dead,
Wings in the afterlife,
Leaving the key under the door,
Under the Porte des Lilas.
Warbler Sunday
One that gave me the A,
Was perched on other branches,
Other branches of lilac.
When I go to the florist,
I only buy lilacs ...
If my sad song singing
It is that love is gone.