Poetry about Paris: Melancholic grayness.
In the valleys of the Parisian boulevards
The despair of the sky and nothingness compete
This void filled with gold and the laughter of Paris
Insatiable thirst for life and contempt.
Its autumn attire often ennobles it
With a look of prestige and ornamentation.
Paris, the city of love so melancholic
Its color gray, for the beautiful romantic.
The romance of the quays, poems of love
Nerval or Baudelaire, verses forever.
Me, French, I hate this city…
Me, French, I adore it…
City of revolutions, city of gold
Of the bourgeoisie and working class, from West to East.
But… living in Paris in the arms of a woman
Walking on foot through its streets, in its soul It’s passion, a moment of flame
Where declaiming idiocies seems normal.
Paris in autumn, that is the feeling in all its splendor.
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