| Your lover is a violinist, he is gray-haired and humpbacked.
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| He is wildly jealous, does not love you and beats you.
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| But when he plays the Sarasate Concerto,
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| Your heart, like a bird, flies and sings.
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| He is Alphonse by vocation. |
| He knows the secrets
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| And knows how to make a zero out of a woman...
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| But when his flageolets yearn,
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| He is a divine prince, he is Pierrot in love!
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| He crumpled you, broke you, robbed you, depersonalized you.
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| Femme de luxe he managed to turn into femme de chambre.
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| And it has long been out of fashion, has long been indecent
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| Your mole jacket with a slight scent of amber.
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| And in a tired face, and in a manner of holding
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| Both negligence and laziness appeared in you.
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| Is it possible to laugh so bitterly, so evilly?
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| Is it possible to trample on lilacs with your heels? ..
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| And when you, suffering from the caresses of the rude,
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| Quietly crying somewhere in the corner, not breathing, -
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| He plays his Sarasate Concerto for you,
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| From which the soul will bleed!
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| Ugly, unnecessary, sick and belly,
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| Hating him, despising himself,
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| You forgive everything for the Sarasate Concert,
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| Frantically, madly and painfully loving! .. |