« If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast. »

– Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (1964)

Its feet disgrounded from the soil
here is the herd coming down
frenzily rushing to
the daily needs of perfection

– here is a countless soul stuck in
the celebration of
voluntary unescaping.

Its pace unfaithful to its hearts
here is the mass looking forward
never again, just
enough to meet full emptiness

– here is a restless look let out
the city of cities
voluntarily seeking

its peace dismantled from its soul.
Here is another gaze it gives
to pink clouds above
towering – all cities the same

light. Here is a portion of Paris
a floating heart
voluntarily finding.


* Here is to my Parisian friends and nostalgia. Bon 14 juillet! Ce poème pourra être traduit plus tard; il a été écrit en anglais pour le dVerse Poets Pub. Certains me diront que Paris n’est pas la France, je leur répondrai que Paris, c’est Paris. Même de New York City. *