With my face of Metec, of Jouy-Ferrand, of Patro-Grec, and my hair at 80. With my eyes all washed, which give me the air of dreaming, I who do not dream more often. With my hands of Marauders, of Musicians and of Rodeurs, who have plundered so many gardens. With my mouth which has drunk, which has kissed and bitten, without ever savoring its end. With my face of Metec, of Jouy-Ferrand, of Patro-Grec, of Thieves and of Vagabonds. With my skin which has rubbed against the sun of all summers, and all those who wore jackets. With my heart which has suffered, to suffer as much as it has suffered, without making history for it. With my soul which has drunk, the slightest chance of salivation, to avoid purgatory. With my face of Metec, of Jouy-Ferrand, of Patro-Grec, and my hair at 80. I will come, my sweet captive, my soul will come out, my living source, I will come to drink your wine. And I will be a blood-thirster, a dreamer or a teenager, as you like to choose. And we will make of each day, a whole eternity of love, which we will live to die. And we will make of each day, a whole eternity of love, which we will live to die.