Eponine is dead.
A friend of sorts.
She'll never bring begging letters
Or appear in my way
Or ramble on about nothing
Again.
Should that fact take precedence?
But she did find Cosette
She did save my life
At the expense of hers.
I owe so much to her
Yet she is dead.

Should I forget her face,
A rose in misery?
And her harsh voice
An angel possessed?
Her limbs bony and pitiful,
Weakened by hunger?
I wince when I remember
How I avoided her one day.
How cold and ungrateful I was;
If I could only explain
My warmth was used on Cosette,
None left for her, but I can't
For Eponine is dead.