Zorro gris

How many fateful nights of vice
your sweet illusions of woman,
like the roses of a mad orgy
you stripped them in the cabaret.
And after the farce of love's deceitful charade
as you walked away from the Armenonville,
it was the intense cold of your soul
that you sheltered with your gray fox.

As you feigned guffaws of joy
at the fleeting gold of champagne,
you repressed inside your chest
a tenacious desire to cry.
And thinking, between a kiss and a tango,
of your humble happy past,
you hid your holy tears
in the folds of your gray fox.

That's why all your anguished history
is gravitating in that garment.
She kept your holy tears,
she sheltered your spiritual cold.
And when in a near day the longed-for end
the longed-for end to your pains,
all the secret of your sad life
will remain inside the gray fox.