The flames of the hearth flicker
like so other fires now extinguished
in the exalted heart of human furor .
The king is dying .
Surrounded by beloved shadows
and hater specters ...
It\'s a cold november morning .
In this mortuary chamber ,
the oppressive smell of fever ,
heavy perfumes and gangrene ...
Wifes, courtiers and suitors at our pleasure,
forgotten in infamous dungeons and sacrificed.
\'\' Is it you ,ma mie, who has returned ?
What is this red rose tearing your hand ? \'\'
It\'s a misty day in november
or even the hours question the vanity of things...
Tall candles fixed on a golden wood
bow when the chalice appears ...
Awaiting the somber confessor .
You who enter in the mystery of death
without revealing any of the secrets of your life
thou shalt have no rest !
The king is dying .
His eyes see nothing but the procession
of the tortured souls who cry out
for mercy and justice !
\'\' Is it you ,Monsieur mon frère ,
who carries your head in your arms ? \'\'
It\'s a sad evening in november
drawing to a close .
At the gallows the hanged men
swing silently as if seized with respect .
Crows spreading the news ...
Rain pours down on the London tower .
Patient is the executioner .
\'\' Is it you ,ma fillote who stare at me
with such despair ? \'\'
- I ,who made you queen of a beautiful
and futile kingdom .
Did you not know that all princesses
are repudiated in the name of the cruel
reason of state ? \'\'
- \'\' Forgive me everyone and let the almighty
be the judge !
Him,only knows the weight and loneliness
of power ! \'\'
-The futur is a lie already written on the blank page
of eternity ! \'\'
- \'\' Perhaps ,will I return as a poet ? \'\'.