With flowers and with women,
with absinthe and with fire,
we can divert ourselves a little,
acting our parts in the play.

Absinthe drunk on a winter evening,
lights up in green the smoky soul;
and the flowers on the darling one
exude perfume before the bright fire.

Then kisses lose their charms,
having lasted a few seasons,
reciprocal betrayal means
you leave one day without tears.

You burn letters and flowers
then the love-nest catches fire
and if the sad life is spared,
only absinthe and indigestion remain.

The portraits are eaten up in the flames,
the shrivelled fingers are trembling,
you die having slept too long
with the flowers, with the women.

Charles Cros, French Poet and Inventor
1842 – 1888