Original Title: "La femme qui est dans mon lit"
Year: 1967
If you meet her, weirdly dressed
Dragging in the gutter an heel taken off
And the head and the eye low like a wounded pigeon
Sirs do not spit swearwords nor filth
To the painted face of that poor impur one
Who goddess Famine has one evening of winter
Forced to lift her petticoats in open air
That Bohemia is my good, my wealth
My pearl, my jewel, my queen
My Duchess
The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
The eyes rung by years, by loves day-to-day
The mouth worn out by kisses too often and too badly given
The bleak complexion despite the blusher more pale than a moon's spot
The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
The breasts so heavy of too much love do not wear the name of baits
The body weary, too caressed, too often, but badly loved
The back stooped seems to carry memories she had to run away from
The woman who is in my bed, isn't twenty years old for a long time
Don't laugh, don't touch her, keep your tears and your sarcasms
When night reunites us, her body, her hands offer themselves to mine
And its her heart covered with tears and wounds which reassures me.
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