Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowd As herds of bellowing buses drive by Love's anguish tightens your throat As if you were never to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monasteryYou are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayerYou make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter crackles The sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your lifeIt's a painting hanging in a dark museumAnd sometimes you go and look at it close up

S'en est allée l'amanteAu village voisin malgré la pluieSans son amant s'en est allée l'amantePour danser avec un autre que luiLes femmes mentent mentent

La PucePuces, amis, amantes même,Qu'ils sont cruels ceux qui nous aiment!Tout notre sang coule pour eux.Les bien-aimés sont malheureux.

Now you walk in Paris alone among the crowdHerd of bellowing buses hemming you aboutAnguish of love parching you withinAs though you were never to be loved againIf you lived in olden times you would get you to a cloisterYou are ashamed when you catch yourself at a paternosterYou are your own mocker and like hellfire your laughter cracklesGolden on your life's hearth fall the sparks of your laughterIt is a picture in a dark museum hungAnd sometimes you go and contemplate it long

Today you are walking in Paris the women are all steeped in bloodIt was and I'd rather not remember it was at beauty's decline

I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.