Old people no longer speak
or only
sometimes out of their eyes,
Even rich they are poor,
they no longer have illusions,
and have only one heart for two.
At home it smells of thyme,
clean, lavender,
and the verb of yesteryear,
That we live in Paris,
we all live in the provinces
when we live too long.
Is it from having laughed too much
that their voice cracks
when they talk about yesterday?
And having cried too much
that tears still
bead their eyelids?
And if they tremble a little
is it to see the silver clock age
Which hums in the living room,
Which says yes, who says no,
Which says: “I’m waiting for you”.
The old people no longer dream,
their books fall asleep,
their pianos are closed,
The little cat is dead.
The muscat of Sunday
does not make them no longer sing,
The old people no longer move,
their gestures have too many wrinkles,
their world is too small,
From the bed to the window,
then from bed to armchair,
and then from bed to bed,
And if they go out again
arm in arm,
all dressed in clothes,
It's is to follow in the sun
the funeral of an older one,
the burial of an uglier one,
And the time of a sob
forget for a whole hour
the silver clock
Which hums in the living room,
who says yes, who says no,
and then who waits for them.
Old people don't die,
They fall asleep one day
and sleep too long,
They hold hands,
they are afraid of getting lost,
and still get lost
And the other remains there,
the better or the worse,
the gentle or the severe,
It doesn't matter,
which of the two remains
finds himself in hell.
You will see him perhaps,
you will see him sometimes
in rain and in sorrow
Going through the present.
By already excusing
for not being further away.
And fleeing before you
one last time
the silver clock
Which purrs in the living room,
who says yes, who says no,
who says to them: "I'm waiting for you",
Who purrs in the living room,
who says yes, who says no,
and then who awaits us

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