A roving couple, Parisian drifters,
Are speaking songs in tempo, tune,
Each sparkly note all purply-blue.
They are the envy of each scanning eye,
The jealousy of every young anyone,
For they sit silent, caught captured, undone.
—Though, not by some such gendarmerie,
Nor by the meandering, nomadic police
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem