Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux

I've decided to share one of my favourite poems, one by Louis Aragon (1897-1982) called Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux. This is an English translation which struggles to do the French version justice but you can find the original text here, amongst other places...


Man never truly possesses anything
Neither his strength, nor his weakness, nor his heart
And when he opens his arms
His shadow is that of a cross
And when he tries to embrace happiness
He crushes it
His life is a strange and painful divorce

There is no happy love

His life resembles those soulless soldiers
Who have been groomed for a different fate
Why should they rise in the morning
When nighttime finds them disarmed, uncertain
Say these words and hold back your tears

There is no happy love

My beautiful love, my dear love, my torn heart
I carry you in me like a wounded bird
Those who unknowingly watch us walk by
Repeat after me my words and sigh
They have already died in your bright eyes

There is no happy love

By the time we learn to live
It's already too late
Our hearts cry in unison at night
It takes many a misfortune for the simplest song
Many regrets to pay for a thrill
Many a tear for a guitar's melody

There is no happy love

There is no love which is not pain
There is no love which does not bruise
There is no love which does not fade
And none that is greater than your love for your country
There is no love which does not live from tears

There is no happy love
But it is our own love