Are washed away in ordinary grime;
The dirt of centuries of worshippers
Who did not notice as gods left their shrines.
All day, her city is frantic
With the mirror's ennui, her twisting visage.
Preoccupied with arts of finance
Poems of blue sky.
Parisians walk by quickly;
This is well known, but
I shall not quickly forget
Their looks of disgust.
Her city is become a whore,
Whose romance is cheap, too well practised.
Where are her dear poets?
They show us they are alive
With lipstick kisses on a gravestone
And the sounds of hearts breaking at night.
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