Tonight, the wind knocking at my door
speaks to me of past loves
before the dying fire
tonight, an autumn song
quavers through the house
and I think of those bygone days
What remains of our loves?
What of those fine days of yore?
A photo, an old photo, of my youth.
What remains of the love letters
the months of April, the rendez-vous?
A memory that pursues me without fail
a shadow of happiness, windblown hair
stolen kisses, moving dreams
what remains of all these things
do tell me?
a little village, an old bell tower
fields and meadows, well tucked away
and in a cloud, the cherished face
of my past days.
The words, the tender words that are murmured
the caresses purest of the pure
the vows exchanged deep in the woods
the flowers one finds among the pages of a book
whose perfume quakes and stirs
have all blown away, oh why?