Il pleut

The rain is falling



A cascade of raindrops

Pour down from me tonight.

There’s no inkling to stop;

There’s no end in sight.


There’s no twilight moon,

No sun and no stars.

No flowers begging to bloom.

No streets for busy cars.


Mais il pleut encore.


The hearth has no fire,

The table is not set,

There is no bed to retire

From the cold and the wet.


All I have left is an empty couch,

An empty crib, and an empty house.

And an echo back to happy days

Which have trapped me in this mental maze.


Mais il pleut encore.


I can still see my daughter’s smile

By the grass, in the sun;

My wife resting on the tile

With her hair in a bun.


But like the sky they have faded to gray

And I am plagued with anguish:

The fact that they were taken away

‘Cause they spoke another language.


Et il pleut encore.



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Published by Cassady O'Reilly-Hahn