Paris, how my heart cries out for you,
my soul, tattered, haunts the Louvre—
longs to borrow every shade of blue,
and paint the world that we once knew.
Hang it high over the Avenue de L’Opéra,
as we walk unafraid and sing hallelujah.
Or by the frowning café, where we sat before,
cursing the fetid, serpentine tentacles of war.
A day in Paris, how it changes one—
what will you be when spring has sprung?
Like the trees that denude in Parc Monceau,
Rest unquiet, dark prophets, they’ll bloom again and cure.
Oh, please, still wander near the Arc de Triomphe—
oh, please, when night cascades, still dream of love.
Surely not of them, or what they’ve done.
Remember, do not dream, of what they’ve done.