Текст: Carla Bruni. No Promises. Ballade at Thirty-Five.

This, no song of ingenue
This, no ballad of innocence
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents

This, a solo of sapience
This, a chantey of sophistry
This, the sum of experiments
I loved them 'til they loved me

I loved them 'til they loved me
I loved them 'til they loved me

Decked in garments of sable hue
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents
Wearing shower bouquets of rue
Walk I ever in penitence

Oft I roam, as my heart repents
Through God's acres of memory
Marking stones in my reverence
I loved them 'til they loved me

I loved them 'til they loved me
I loved them 'til they loved me

Pictures pass me in long review
Marching columns of dead events
I was tender and often true
Ever a prey to coincidence

Always knew I the consequence
Always saw what the end would be
We're as nature has made us hence
I loved them 'til they loved me

I loved them 'til they loved me
I loved them 'til they loved me

Princes, never I'd give offense
Won't you think of me tenderly?
You're my strength and my weakness, gents

This, no song of ingenue
This, no ballad of innocence
This, the rhyme of a lady who