The best of oneself is like a heavy secrecy,
Who remains buried all at the bottom of our heart:
For one it is a love, and for the other a regret,
or the tragic and alive glance of a flame,
that no one can extinguish, and that no one will see;
For others a desire which waits and which requests,
It is God whom one calls and who does not answer,
It is the useless effort... and it is all the life!
And for me, my Friend, for me which gave
All that my heart of tenderness contained,
For me, which was unaware of what it is to love,
And which quite simply, without knowing intoxication,
Said: "Here my heart", with the valiant knight,
For me which suffered, waited and cried,
For me which will never have happiness, listens
The best of myself is made of silence
Infinitely deep, forged by the pain,
This frightening silence which looks at and which thinks...
This silence very full with love, of which I die.