City of Melancholy

City of melancholy

Your narrow streets are full

of mystery.

Cobble-stoned serpents wind through your heart

And stitch you together.

 Like a jigsaw puzzle.

On winter evenings, I feel

That you are a dream

A lie, spun by the rain

And the fog.

As your lights grow dim

And you almost vanish.

Made up of so many little pieces

You never feel real.

Your beauty scares me.

Reminds me of my ugliness

And loneliness. Exposes

My vulnerabilities.

No, you are no city

A mere postcard

Or an old black and white photo

Bought by a tourist

At a boquinist’s

By the Seine, pour €1,05.

Let them see you outside the postcard

In the graffiti of abandoned buildings

The smell of the metro

The crowd and the broken seats

The gypsy woman who kneels in the rain

And begs.

In the rats sheltering in the crevices

Of your underground

Dancing playfully and cheering on

their human counterparts.

In this city

Rats and men are neighbours.

We are a quiet people.

Nay, we are sheep

But quieter

As we pour in to offices and homes
And homes and offices, in large numbers-

A daily exodus.

Suddenly, amid the stink

And the heat of the metro

As I am pushed and jerked

I spot a few verses

Of an anonymous poet

And love you again.

Decadent City, I am slave to you.