Archive
08/17/11 - (1)
Le bateau parisien
At the foot of la Tour Eiffel's tourist-queued Pilier Nord Lies Port de la Bourdonnais, by Pont d'Iéna, on the river Seine, Where the sleek, glass-sided-and-roofed Onyx awaits our embarkation,
Then slips, almost without our noticing, from its mooring, precisely at 8:30, Glides us, fluidly, silently, upstream, in the remaining daylight, Past les Invalides, le Musée d'Orsay, and la Cathédrale Notre Dame,
And, at la Bibliothèque Nationale, in illuminated darkness, reverses course, Flows by l'Hôtel de Ville, le Louvre, le Place de la Concorde, le Grand Palais, And, just beneath the massive tower, completes its Sunday dinner voyage.
Now, midnight dances around the stars, asks us to hold hands, kiss. Gazing up, marveling not at August's waxing moon But at the lacy, cast-iron tracery of the grandest obelisk man's ever shaped,
We gather every entrancing impression that saw us, from the water, Those glittering, shimmering, dazzling, dizzying reflections of the city, Its exquisitely graceful bridges, spotlit edifices, timeless je ne sais quoi,
Blessed to have been steeped in the sublime mystique soul mates know Maybe once or twice in their lives or, like us, moment to moment, When romance transcends itself, becomes love.
08/17/11 - (1)
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