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Carla Bruni No Promises Ballade at Thirty-Five Ballade At Thirty Five This, no song of ingnue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever the natural bents. This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments, -- I loved them until they loved me. Decked in garments of sable hue, Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, Wearing shower bouquets of rue, Walk I ever in penitence. Oft I roam, as my heart repents, Through God's acre of memory, Marking stones, in my reverence, |
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