In the Holy city of Lourdes,
Patrice listens to songs,
On the concern of his heavy pains.
They indicate, with the unison,
The pitiful and deadly virus
Which killed his love, his fairy, his angel.
One day, the day before Toussaint day,
By a beautiful sunday morning,
She left, on this music.
But this evening into its white bedroom
A few pieces of its memory of before November
Were moulted in anaesthetic.