Ballade At Thirty-Five - Carla Bruni

This, no song of ingénue

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

«I loved them until they loved me.»

Pictures pass me in long review,--

Marching columns of dead events

I was tender, and, often, true;

Ever a prey to coincidence

Always knew I the consequence;

Always saw what the end would be

We’re as Nature has made us -- hence

I loved them until they loved me

Princes, never I’d give offense

Won’t you think of me tenderly?

Here’s my strength and my weakness, gents —

I loved them until they loved me