Lament of the Seine

At the bottom of the Seine

there is gold,

rusting boats,

jewels, weapons...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are dead bodies...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are tears...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are flowers;

in their vase of mud

they are nourished by silt...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are the hearts

that greatly suffered for living life...

And then the rocks

and the grey beasts...

The pipes of the sewers,

blowing out poison...

The rings thrown away

by misunderstood lovers,

feet that a propeller cut off from their trunk...

And the cursed fruits of sterile wombs,

the innocent abortions that no one loved...

The vomit of the big city...

At the bottom of the Seine, it is there...

Oh, lenient Seine where the cadavers go,

oh, bed with the sheets made from silt,

river of losses without beacon, nor haven,

singing a lullaby to the morgue and the bridges,

welcoming the poor one,

welcoming the woman,

welcoming the drunkard,

welcoming the crazy one,

mixing theirs sobs to the sound of your blades,

and carrying their hearts among the rocks...

At the bottom of the Seine

there is gold,

rusting boats,

jewels, weapons...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are dead bodies...

At the bottom of the Seine

there are tears...