II

In the crowd, in Paris, I love to lose my way,

To wander aimlessly for hours, never tiring.

I do not hear the noise; I am deaf to the words;

A thousand carts crossing at mad speeds

Heat the air in vain with their racket:

I feel myself, among so much and such varied tumult,

As alone as if I were deep in the heart of a dark forest,

I see no one and nothing touches me.

I find myself sometimes, like a simple onlooker,

Falling from some dream where I soared on high

Listening, an indulgent connoisseur,

To a singer hawking the new love song,

I find myself then in the midst of strangers:

Loafers, assistants, errand boys, barefooted laborers,

Workers fleeing from the nearest factory,

Housewives who, within their somber kitchens,

Have followed the song like an echo of days gone by;

Each one sings the refrain at the top of their voice.… And yet,

Despite its fine success, once the lament is finished,

The group disperses and I resume my dream…