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