Читать книгу And So I Write My Life - Юлия Н. Шувалова - Страница 7

Paroles, paroles… Is there a price to words,

Or their value is indeed invented

When scales are used to measure their worth

To give to someone as a gift or credit,

To which the weights are always other words?

Paroles, paroles… From underneath their face

A subject lurks, occasional and silent,

Escaping to the infinitives’ maze,

Abandoning the predicate’s confinement,

Confusing all superlatives in haste.

Paroles, paroles… My life is made of words

But now, taking off my famous smile,

I think: do you have really any worth,

So usual, wise, eternal, versatile,

Or are you always words, but mere words?