A work ("The enemy") by this French poet. You can read the original here.
My youth was but a darkling storm,
Crossed here and there by brilliant suns;
By rain and thunder ravaged, torn,
My garden fruit, less red, undone.
The autumn of my thoughts is here,
With spades and rakes my shade will loom,
To reconstruct this land of tears,
Where water laps large holes like tombs.
Who knows if flowers newly dreamt,
Shall find upon this washed shore's bend
That mystic fare and sweet vim's chart?
O pain, as time devours life, pain!
Dark Enemy that eats our heart!
On spilled blood fed, in strength it gains!