Confession

Once, once only, sweet and lovable woman,     you leant your smooth arm on mine     (that memory has never faded a moment     from the shadowy depths of my mind):     it was late: the full moon spread its light     like a freshly minted disc,     and like a river, the solemnity of night     flowed over sleeping Paris.     Along the houses, under carriage gates,     cats crept past furtively,     ears pricked, or else like familiar shades,     accompanied us slowly.     Suddenly, in our easy intimacy,     that flower of the pale light,     from you, rich, sonorous instrument, eternally     quivering gaily, bright,     from you, clear and joyous as a fanfare     in the glittering dawn     a strange, plaintive sigh escaped     a faltering tone     as from some stunted child, detestable, sullen, foul,     whose family in shame     hide it for years, to conceal it from the world     in the cellars dark cave.     My poor angel, that harsh voice of yours cried:     That nothing on earth is certain,     and however carefully its disguised,     human selfishness rips the curtain:     its a hard life being a lovely woman,     its the banal occupation     of a cold, crazed dancer who summons     the mechanical smiles occasion:     its stupid to build on the mortal heart:     everything shatters, love and beauty,     till Oblivion hurls them into its cart,     and returns them to Eternity!     Ive often recalled that enchanted silence,     its moon, and its languor: all     of that dreadful whispered confidence     in the hearts confessional.