XXLove letters   

 

 

 

 

When our heads recited poems written by ghosts,

 

 

When somebody is hungry,

A fresh baguette filled with ham and camembert looks more impressive than Our Lady,

Hunger is a driving force,

It sent us down narrow streets,

Steep steps and pictorial staircases,

We shifted in space a few feet to the left and to the right,

Till we were on our own,

Till we were off the beaten track,

The street was a mixture of  old and new,

Time was less complicated here,

Usually tourists stick to two or three little streets,

Drawing circles around artists,

They stand stoically in long queues,

Accordions and violins serenade passersby,

Reviving a retro feel like in the golden age movies,

After they pay their way to the top of Gustave Eiffel’s wonder,

Exhausted they fall asleep,

They return from a trip,

In the jumble of grey buildings,

They are sure about knowing Paris,

Committing the biggest blunder,

Montmartre isn’t as pink as flamingo plumage,

It is a true woman,

She took something after mermaids,

There is a vague feeling of menace,

Rolling over night cobblestones,

Once she snares you,

There is no breakthrough,

She is a siren,

You are her prisoner willingly framed,

The air was pungent,

It foreshadowed the winter ahead,

A frigid wind blew from the north,

The consummation of autumn,

Your hands went numb,

They escaped from the cold like big snakes,

Like two pythons slithering into the pockets,

‘Shall we come across ghosts from the glorious past?

Would you introduce me to Dali or Baudelaire?’

‘I’m sorry we shall not,

I’ll introduce you to Francoise,

She is a local ghost,

We’re getting closer to her overcrowded with antiques lair,

She is invisible as her ghostly status commands,

Only a few can see her there,

All the rest are ghostly blind,

They walk through her,

Don’t tell me about yourself,

I neither believe nor guess,

I’ll understand what kind of person you are,

You are my future tenant,

Who you are,

I should know’.