invisible streams through her streets.
– far from lifeless –
as in a bateau-mouche ¹.
This light-hearted show is
not a well-orchestrated scene.
Whenever there might be a gesture of
rancidity in the old alleys,
an angel is standing guard.
– He waits, he knows –
“A Paris, on a inventé le plus-jamais-malheureux, Monsieur.” ²
Her beauty of powdery
glamour has to go.
A memory, a scent of old wax,
through glass, on palisander,
this is how time reveals her.
Paris is old and young at the same time.
Perfect illusion as a bubble of soap,
even if she bursts, her sparsity will stay
in the loud laughter of astonished children.
She is a swooning lover
in all caresses.
Those of love, those of comfort.
In the evening she sings
melancholy in tremolo.
Her glass eternity reflects itself
subdued in her lovers eyes.
The grandness of trees is
different than elsewhere.
¹ a riverboat
² in Paris they invented the very worst unhappiness, mister