Hortense blew out so many candles
And saw so many springs bloom
That winter one morning without making a sound
Poured on her its snows of yesteryear
It's high time to say goodbye
To what made him happy
The little suburban pavilion
And its garden planted with flowers
As for the white wine under the arbors
Which reminds her of her twenties
She will sing with another old woman
In this retreat far from Nogent
Hortense never looked
The hands of the clocks
Which nevertheless were spinning
She thought she would never
Suffer the weight of the years
This damn drift of incontinent people
Now alone in her chair
In this room with wallpapered wall
With photos which are as much mourning
As there are days in the year
She cries for the cherry season
Even that of lily of the valley
Loves that she has known exquisitely
In the sweetness of the first buts
Sunday is a day of glory
And icing on the cake
When her descendants come and see her
Between her hours and hers
It's not a family
It's misfortune and worse
From the flesh to notary
D 'the mafia seed
Waiting for the inheritance
And her last sighs
Will give it the signal
Of her happiness between them
When she has earned her wings
What does it matter if she goes to heaven
The only thing she asks for herself
Is to never see these rotten people again
Who from the suburban house
br/>And the garden planted with flowers
Have found nothing better to do
Than a developer's play area

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