Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille
When you are old, men will not want to hear
How you were once the idol of the bars,
How your lips mapped red countries through young heads
And little poets swore your eyes were stars.
Staying awake, though full of cold and sleep,
When leaves are blowing in your avenue
You will recall a lover of bright things
Who, when he spoke of brightness, spoke of you,
Recall our noon, how our great evening shrunk
To midnight whispers traveling the wires,
And our dark plot in kingdoms of the sun
Where we have lived to bury our desires.