Ballade at Thirty-Five - Carla Bruni
This, no song of ingenue
This, no ballad of innocence
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever the natural bents
This, a solo of sapience
This, a chantey of sophistry
This, the sum of experiments, -
I loved them until they loved me
Decked in garments of sable hue
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents
Wearing shower bouquets of rue
Walk I ever in penitence
Oft I roam, as my heart repents
Through God's acre of memory
Marking stones, in my reverence
I loved them until they loved me.
Pictures pass me in long review, -
Marching columns of dead events
I was tender, and, often, true
Ever a prey to coincidence
Always knew I the consequence
Always saw what the end would be
We're as Nature has made us - hence
I loved them until they loved me
Princes, never I'd give offense
Won't you think of me tenderly?
Here's my strength and my weakness, gents -
I loved them until they loved me
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