Yet this seductive verse, these fateful refrains and these melancholy rhymes, I know them all too well.
My heart, stormed by my passing faults, is not doing very well, my homeless heart is not very proud of it.
From door to door, like a tramp in search of a little warmth, he finds nothing but bad luck.
Arm in arm at random seeking a little comfort, he finds only wrong.
If he had known all the seasons, he would not have made drunkenness his companion in penance.
If he clings to solitude and devotes abstinence to it, if he monopolizes it and does it at the same convenience, it is the better to separate himself from his sufferings.
He doesn't know any other reason, I don't pity him if he pities a house.
If he changes his emotions every quarter of an instant, or if he takes other proportions, I do not pity him, it is a flower of the season.
I don't pity him if he sometimes takes on a great oratory with these complicated monologues.
I don't pity him if sometimes he prefers your sincerity and your simplicity.
This poor homeless heart once sang love, and even if it staggered or fell, it clung, but that was long ago.
Long ago, before my homeless heart knew this melancholy.