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When, ahead of your amazement,
they'll come to ask you about our love,
to those people, desperate to be heard,
such a lasting love
don't give it away too quickly.
Don't open your lips wide to a jam of words,
those lips of yours, so restrained in love's fantasies.
So confident after love by taking refuge in those "always",
in the hypocrisy of those "never".
I haven't managed to change you,
you haven't changed me, you know that.
And behind microphones they will bring a mirror
to make yourself more beautiful and think of me as already old.
Give them a make-up you didn't wear with me and they'll be astonished
that you weren't enough to me.
Go on, tell them I threw the power away from my hands,
where love wasn't mature and I would leave scratches on your ***.
To come back after love to love's caresses,
it was easy by then.
You haven't managed to change me,
I haven't changed you, you know that.
Tell them that your eyes were always given back to me,
as flowers given in May and returned in November.
Your eyes as returnable bottles for whom gave you a job, your eyes hired for three years,
your eyes for them.
Good, by now, for raking beaches with the excuse of coral,
or for dropping into a cinema with a millstone round the neck;
eyes too tired not to be ashamed to confess it to mine, just identical to yours:
they did manage to change us,
they did manage, you know it.
But, without anyone knowing about it,
tell me, how does it feel without a plan?
Will you keep admiring yourself to the point of wanting to wear yorself on your own finger? Will you make love for love's sake,
or because you assured us?
Will you go and live with Alice, who makes whisky by distilling flowers?
Or with a Casanova, who promises to introduce you to his parents?
Or will you simply stay where an instant is as good as any other,
without asking yourself why?
Will you go on letting yourself be chosen?
Or will you finally choose..?