It was 1968 and the gods
descended from Mount Olympus
and walked among us. I was
barely five, following
the grownups around Paris.
The pavements were humming
and the old Halles
were still full of light and shades
trickling into rivulets and puddles, swift
to the touch. Without the strong
narrating voice, connected
by dream’s umbilical cord,
I listened with my body.
don’t remember Louvre and the grand boulevards
only the mayflies of dust
and the smell
of ripe fruits, like the inside
of churches. The face of the street smiling at me
from so close, like a good mother.
Yes, I know what was
underneath those flagstones. I am still
full of whispers,
like a dry, empty shell.