Fall, silent tears,
On a land without pity;
No more in pious hands,
nor in the bosom of friendship!
Fall like an arid rain
That springs up on the rock,
Let no ray of heaven wipe away,
No breath comes to dry.
What does it matter to these men my brothers
The broken heart of an unhappy man?
Too far above my miseries,
My misfortune is so far from them!
No doubt no tears will
obscure the heavens for them;
Their future has no alarm,
Their cup will have no gall.
Never this frivolous crowd
Who passes by laughing before me
Will need only one word
Tell her, "I cry with you!"
Well! let us no longer seek the
vain pity of mankind;
Let us shed our sorrow,
And hide my brow in my hands.
At the hour when the solitary soul
wraps itself in a black crepe,
And expects nothing from the earth, the
widow of her last hope;
When the friendship that forgets it
Turns away from its path,
Let its last stick, which bends,
Breaks and tears his hand;
When the weak man, who dreads the
contagion of misfortune,
leaves us alone on our journey
Face to face with pain;
When the future does not exist,
And that the bitterness of tears
is the only taste of our bread;
It is then that your voice rises
in the silence of my heart,
and that your hand, my God! raises
The iced weight of my pain.
One feels that your tender word
To others can not mingle,
Lord! and that she consoled only
those who could not be consoled.
Your celestial arm attracts us
Like a friend against his heart,
The world, which sees us smile,
said to himself: "Where does this happiness come from?"
And the soul melts in prayer
and talks with the heavens,
And the tears of the eyelid
dry themselves to our eyes,
like a ray of light,
On the branch or on the rock,
The last drop of rain
That no shadow could not dry.
