Qu'il était triste cet Anglais [English translation]

It was the décor expected

Of a bar of Thames

With its boredom widespread

Like a grey smoke,

Its rustle of creased newspapers,

Its clink of glasses

And the muffled whispers

Of its severe customers.

He was so sad, that Englishman

Whose the hand of time only had

softly blurred the features

Of his face.

All alone, immobile and silent,

Standing by the counter, he was drinking.

It seemed that he came back

From a long journey.

When he had drunk too much, suddenly,

From his eyes, two tears slipped.

Someone said: 'And now he's drunk!'

And then seconds passed...

Still, I who was staring him,

It moved me, it moved me.

I mingled his silent cry

With the whole earth

Because I didn't understand very well

What he would say for himself only:

'My beloved stayed in Paris...'

Perhaps he exhausted

All adventures

Or had he been lugging a heart broken

By a life too hard.

Had he the melancholy of sailor

For the promised lands

Or was he making a great sorrow

Of a simple silliness?

He was so sad, that Englishman

That, every night, I still would

See him carrying the weight of his

Impenetrable secret.

All alone, immobile and silent,

Standing by the counter, he was drinking.

The same game would start again

At each table.

Some people looked out for him below

And his tears made them laugh.

I heard: 'And now he's drunk!'.

That's all they found to say.

But when I approached him,

He confided me with an amazed look:

'My beloved stayed in Paris...

Stayed in Paris...'

Please, barman, what has he got?

And the barman answered me:

'His beloved stayed in Paris...

... Dead, maybe...'

'...my beloved stayed in Paris...

My beloved stayed in Paris...

In Paris... In Paris...'