City of soft skies and gentle shores,
Wide boulevards, steep twisted streets,
Slow flowing river framed
In bookstalls, love, and buttonwood.
The clang of bells, the squawking cabs,
The clatter of the cobblestones,
Join breaking day's bon-jours to be
Happy sounds,
Still crystal clear. But, those I knew are faded now,
Wraithlike, wrapped in withered years.
Yet, in whispers of the linden trees,
Each, when called, comes forth to tell
Of wondrous days, that even then
Were one without tomorrows. Where each cafe guards faithfully,
Its treasury of memories,
And sings its own sweet requiem
For laughter, lights,
For velvet nights,
For worlds we were to build,
For joy that knew no reason,
Save, I was young,
And it was Paris.