Paris, France

The cobblestones bleed history here, in old
Pahree, the language haemorrhaging sounds.
Up on the hill the newer stomping grounds
of hipster girls eclipse the winter cold
la Belle Époque plagued painters with. You sold
out long ago: the lights, the photo hounds,
the locks of lovers kept you out of bounds,
those prices going up a hundredfold.
Remember, poets died within your Seine.
You show surrender’s scars, so proudly drawn,
though loot adorns your museums. Contraband
and dreams run wild at night. Let me not drown
as countless artists did so in your land
throwing their souls away in Europe’s crown.


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