If I could write a poem about Paris it would taste of a wonderful gooey piece of Camembert cheese. And next, you would get a bite of fresh baguette—crispy on the outside and oh so soft inside. And you would be sitting with your legs crossed on a bench half in sun, half dimpled with shade and seasoned with a gentle breeze cooled in the sparkle of a fountain in the square behind you.

And such a splendid variety of sounds would fill your ears that you would probably laugh. Laugh at the musical babble of French voices rising and falling, coming and passing around you. Laugh at the grumpy two year old arguing with his mother. Laugh at the prancing pidgin, cooing and chasing another about in a most ridiculous manner.

And, if poems were people, one would come and sit down beside you. She would be young, and pretty, with dark brown hair and a soft thick accent. She would ask you about your world, but you would not tell her. No, you would have ears only for her world, for her wonderful city of Paris.

Paris, with its crowded cobbled streets containing slow and wandering feet, and also speedy, fashionable feet. Paris, with its whimsical galleries containing visions of the past and glimpses of the present.

If I could write a poem about Paris, it would be more than just one or two busy days, touring as a tourist. It would be a place to dream. To Belong. To simply be.

The End

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