Arlette

Nor the Champs Elysées, nor the gay boulevard,
Will no longer see the stars of your verdemar eyes.
Today the old organ grinder with pain
Silent in front of your window his song
The Grim Reaper has already given you an appointment...
and I know you won't miss.
Pretty and good little French girl,
you, just like Margarita,
you carried in your life,
fatal sign.

Arlette,
I don't know why your name has for me
Arlette,
the mysterious poetry of suffering.
I have seen you pensive many nights
at the bar table,
and your eyes were lost in distances,
that crossed the sea.
Arlette,
I never wanted you to know my passion.
Arlette,
I don't know: why my poor heart fell silent.
Arlette,
but today that I know your sad end
to your memory I will entrust
my great love.

When it snows your sadness
in the bar, the accordion
I'll see you always at the table with your glass of liquor.
And I'll see your sad lips flapping,
already known, from talking alone and smoking.
And the cup of my life
will be filled with pain.
Remembering your departure
and your beloved image
that my heart loved so much in silence.