Paris, a young lady, her pulchritude:

Golden hair, smooth skin and rouge

Her heart, the white circular domes of Montmartre like Halos

From the bath of Holy water to

The white veil amid a dulcet of bells rung

To the black crepe and the final prayers sung

 

Her brain the Quartier Latin,

The Hola of Spanish, the Hallo of German, the Hello of English

The move of the tassel and the reading of the Latin diploma

 

And then she reminisces

The time she used her hands for evil

The red of her hands, the black of her coat

The vingtième arrondissement, a lurid place filled once with men with white coats

And children, who knew their mother

 

Then comes spring, and she takes a whiff of the fresh air

The pungent aroma of flowers in a myriad of colours:

The ruby red of the tulips,

Along with the royal purple of the violets,

And the golden yellow of the daisies

The Jardin du Luxembourg in late spring

The smell of rejuvenation like a violet bud opening towards the sun

 

And then L’Opéra

The harmony of the trumpets

Contrasted with the high, refined voice of the soprano

The music of life, the music of death and then the music of love

The new lovers hand in hand, fingers intertwined as tree roots

And then they walk in separate paths as if it was just a show

 

Then the sunsets; the sky as an artist’s palette

The ravishing red, the beautiful blue above only the radiating sun

Her eyes glittering, La tour Eiffel

 

And then as I walk out of the tunnel I see the twinkle in her eyes

And as the full moon rises I vow to return.