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Je n'aime pas dormir quand ta figure habite,
La nuit, contre mon cou ;
Car je pense à la mort laquelle vient trop vite,
Nous endormir beaucoup.

What do they hunt to-night the hounds of the wind?
I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart. I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or
sinned.
I only remember the hours when I stood apart
Lonely and tired, in difficult dreams entranced,
And forget the days when I loved, and laughed and danced....

Gather up
In the arms of your pity
The sick, the depraved,
The desperate, the tired,
All the scum
Of our weary city
Gather up
In the arms of your pity.
Gather up
In the arms of your love
Those who expect
No love from above