Qu'il était triste cet Anglais

It was the expected scene
Of a bar by the Thames
With its widespread boredom
Like a gray smoke
The shiver of crumpled newspapers
The clinking of glasses
And the muffled whispers
Of its stern patrons

How sad this Englishman was
Whose hand of time had only
Softened the features
Of his face
All alone, still and silent
Standing by the bar, he drank
It seemed like he was coming back
From a long journey

When he suddenly drank too much
Two tears slipped from his eyes
Someone said: "Look, he’s drunk!"
And then seconds passed...

Yet I, who was watching him
It tightened me up, it tightened me up
I mixed with his secret tears
The whole world
For I hadn’t quite understood
What he said just for himself:
"My beloved stayed in Paris..."

Maybe he had exhausted
All the adventures?
Or was he dragging a worn-out heart
From a life too tough?
Did he have the sailor's blues
For the promised lands?
Or was he grieving
Over a simple foolishness?

How sad this Englishman was
That I found every evening
Carrying the weight of his secret
Impenetrable
All alone, still and silent
Standing by the bar, he drank
The same game started again
At every table

Some watched him from below
And the tears made them laugh
I heard: "Look, he’s drunk!"
That’s all they could think to say

But when I approached him
He confided to me with a surprised look:
"My beloved stayed in Paris...
Stayed in Paris..."
Please, bartender, what’s wrong with him?
And the bartender replied to me:
"His beloved is in Paris...
Dead, maybe..."