It seems unfair, considering all,
That I am here in this place now
With eighty summers on my brow
And you are there in Epinal
Among our comrades sleeping there.
That I can hear the robins sing
And see the almond tree in spring
And you are there. It isn’t fair.
Flowers, if you grow in Epinal,
Grow near where Robert lies.
I will dream that he has eyes
And sees some fairness after all.