These thoughts are yours, O Paris,
You who still stays so far away;
Every dream as it arises,
Why don’t you laugh and sway?
An evening in Paris is my bliss,
And a night when I no longer travel;
To have a last embrace and a kiss,
Before every lie conspires to unravel.
Like a poem built up of sweet jingles,
Every part of you stands just perfect;
Every cornice and every single egress,
They are all so exact and circumspect.
But, to find meaning in your labyrinths,
Why do I have to descend to the sewers;
Even as my dreams grow colorful,
Why do they have to lose rhythm and substance?