Edith Piaf chanteuse extraordinaire,
Street- fighting child. A phoenix eternally rising,
The Arc de Triomphe ought to celebrate her.
Gangster scum fed on her,
Her vulnerability, her elusive fragility,
Yet- she soared above them
Perform for Nazis? Why not?
Her magical talent transcends opinion,
Her life transcends morality. A life
Without doubting agony.

Me! Ah me, I regret everything.
Coddled, swaddled, infantilised,
Born full of fear- Frightened by my own shadow,
Caged in velvet. A calculated life.
Talent! Could I risk finding it?
Exhibit myself to strangers?
Risk! I was born old,
Safe and secure. What else? I lie
In a blanket of unlimited mediocrity
Crucified by crippling doubts.

Would that we could sing a duet
Non, je ne regrette rien
So I could touch greatness,

Just once.