It sounds almost true in France…

A life lived upon sweet chance.

Nights spent in gluttonous greed.

Days spent in abject need.


Hankering after a lust…

Dreams were trodden into dust.

Regrets became the past.

Alas, the die was cast.


Je ne regret rien, mon frere,

I simply live, I have no care!

Je ne regret rien… ma sœur,

Regrets will pass… perhaps not pure.


© The Secret Poetess, June 2017