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A Poem of Paris

  • May 25
  • 2 min read

Paris begins softly. Not loudly, not urgently, but through air. Through movement. Through the rhythm of footsteps echoing against limestone walls and the slow awakening of cafés along the Seine.


You wake up from a dream, and you open your eyes.

Paris, at first, is tranquil. Here, it’s only you, not a word, not a thought.


It begins slowly.


The music. Quiet at first, flowing through crisp morning air, beckoning you towards it, a steady beat, like a breath of fresh air entering the city.


Like a game of Scrabble with your loved ones. You shuffle a few words and realise Paris carries air within it.


The band writes the score of the city.


Ce matin-là.


The temperature rises, the air sweetens.


Cafés brighten softly, wicker chairs slouching into lazy repose beneath the afternoon sun.


A chair becomes one with the silhouette of a shadow.


Reminiscent of an old man carrying the weight of seven sailed seas, embodying stillness within the chaos, a lighthouse glimmering quietly on the horizon, like the North Star that has been guiding you all along.


Dream and reality swap their indistinguishable faces.


The chair’s gravity grounds you while life floats around in a tango.The metronome becomes the passers-by, the chasers, the dreamers, the fast-walkers disappearing into the rhythm of the streets.



The corner of your eye catches the ledge of a Haussmann balcony.A quiet witness to centuries passing beneath it, pondering the magnitude of its memory compared to one’s fleeting perspective.


Portrait of a life well lived.


The mind wanders, uncharted territories.


Strolling, floating. The music, you realise, becomes the intersection of past, present, and future.


Which street to take? Which way to go? A perpetual gamble.


Comfort leads the way. The eyes close and the body instinctively moves.


Trees rise around you, canopy of colour, of sound.


You open your eyes. You close your eyes. You open your eyes once more.


Only you. Neither words, nor thoughts.


Was it all a dream?


Who knows.


An old man smiles.


-- Tom



Captured in Paris, France.

 
 
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