Paris
PARIS
And you, oh soul, erect under the roofs stained by the thick soft rain playing on the tin of the gutter, speak to me of imperial dignities.
Oh my soul, who in the smell of the bistrots speak to the night, and draw outlines and sounds, and those antique images with blurred shapes among raised coat collars.
In the infinite shades of being, of thinking and loving, the wind raises dust and fumes of fog and coal in the colour of the night carry lace and dress hems.
Thin shapes of women flit among the thick glasses, and magic sticks to you like colour on a rough cloth, while floating levels speak in verse and write poetry dedicated to you, Paris, my soul.