The shoe of the dead woman.
(Le Soulier De La Morte English translation)
This brittle grey and golden shoe,
With curls of fragrant silk,
Such a mysterious thing,
Between my hands, tonight, it sleeps.
I just found it
Lying at the bottom of a chest of drawers...
A small old-fashioned shoe
A shoe full of memories
Since she went away
Led by marches by Chopin,
sleep forever under the pine
in the cold and gloomy alley
I remained all year long
Crushed under a burden of iron
to live like in hell
as a poor damned soul
And now, heart full of darkness
This guard of December
I find it at the bottom of my chamber
The shoe that her foot let fall.
Only this one was left to me,
the other is no doubt among the angels...
And me I run barefoot in the mud
My soul is a perforated shoe.
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