To a sour lemon

I had picked a sour lemon in the market, 

And carried it in my pocket for days.

The peculiar scent, vigorous but set,

Must have followed me all day.

Once I walked into a field of poppies,

Carrying heavy hearts within their red.

My sour lemon made them shake wildly,

To the rhythm of a changing wind.

Then I stepped inside a lingerie store,

The girls of the night, again, on foot.

My sour lemon made them sigh so loud,

That traffic stopped for one day or two.

But my sour lemon became too heavy to carry,

Its scent was too strong, too winsome,

Its eyes were the bluest of them all.

But even the fairest lemon has a thorn,

So I dared to throw my lemon in a bin.

And yet its smell followed me everywhere,

I walked through Paris, climbed in my bed.

I walked on foot, I drove by bus,

I needed to get my sour lemon back.

When I walked back to grab me mine,

It was still alive, but barely there.

It shrank, its smell was outrageous,

His heart was left with black mould.

With a deep sigh, I saw on this loneliest day,

that even my sweet sour lemon I so adore.

'Quelle promesse il murmure a mon oreille?'

Was made of flesh, but nothing more.