French Poetry

I'm French and I will write a French poem for you.
I've grown in that rhythm I came accustomed to,
And I would like to share this melody with you.
What I cannot translate, I still can write anew.

I still have in my mind this terrible image,
When poetry was young, written on a blank page :
Villon hangs in a tree, his eyes are pecked by crows.
He asks the spectators : "Can you grace me somehow ?"   

Looking in a mirror I hear this tiny voice :
"You will grow old some day, and wilt as a flower.
What will remain of you is what they remember.
I'll write that I loved you, but you left me no choice."

Yet from these times long gone, the memory is lost,
But still some words will stay, for ever repeated,
And names that never die, for all they have achieved.
Poets tell of their deeds, and we honour them most.

Ganelon hates Roland, plots with the enemy.
Roland in the rear guard sees opponent army.
He calls for Charlemagne, blows the horn mightily
To warn his commander, he died blowing strongly.

Sailors have long travelled, how many did come back ?
Hugo watches the sea, thinks of all the wreckages
That our long history have seen along the ages.
The widows, the parents, feel their hearts turning black.

They cry for the lost ones, and step into their graves.
And Hugo himself cries, his daughter’s life was brief.
Who can best tell of pain, but him who knew the grief
Of losing a loved child to some capricious waves ?

The poets' words are dark, and they're full of shadows.
Their beauty brings us joy, their meaning brings sorrows.
The poets' souls remain as their words are spoken.
French poets speak English, they will be forgotten.