Les Vieux (The Old)

The old don’t speak anymore
Or only
Sometimes, from their eyes.
Even if they are rich, they are poor
They have no more illusions
And but one heart for two.
At their home it smells of thyme,
Property, lavender,
And old bibles.
Though you live in Paris,
You live in the provinces
When you live too long.
Is it from having laughed too much
That their voices crack
When they speak of yesterday?
Is it from having cried too much
That tears still
Bead on their eyelashes?
And if they tremble a bit
Is it from seeing it grow old,
The silver clock
Which purrs in the parlour,
Which says “Yes”, which says “No”,
Which says "I wait for you."

The old no longer dream,
Their books put them to sleep,
Their pianos are closed.
The little cat is dead,
The TV musical on Sunday
Does not make them sing anymore.
The old do not move anymore,
Their gestures have too many wrinkles,
Their world is too small,
From the bed to the window
Then from the bed to the armchair
Then from the bed to the bed.
And if they go out again,
Arm in arm,
All dressed in stiffness,
It's to follow in the sunshine
The burial of one older,
The burial of one uglier,
And for the time of a sob
Forget for an hour
The silver clock
Which purrs in the parlour,
Which says “Yes”, which says “No”,
And which is waiting for them.

The old don’t die,
They fall asleep one day
And sleep too long.
They hold on to each other's hands,
They’re afraid of losing each other,
But they lose each other nonetheless,
And the other remains there,
The better or the worse,
The soft or the severe,
It does not matter,
The one of the two that remains
Finds themself in hell.
You will see him perhaps,
You will see him sometimes
In the rain and in grief.
Going through the present
Already excusing themself
For not going further.
And fleeing before you
One last time,
The silver clock
Which purrs in the parlour,
Which says “Yes”, which says “No”,
Which says to them "I wait for you",
Which purrs in the parlour,
Which says yes, which says no,
And which waits for all of us.