Lovers hide their kisses
between the stone steps,
they just sealed a love
on the bridge Pont des Arts.
Tying love locks also
on the Pont de l’Archeveche,
near the Notre Dame cathedral,
and will remain anchored
other loved-up couples for ever.
Rainy spring days,
bright summer mornings,
lethargic autumn evenings,
long winter nights.
The couple return
to their home,
along the path
they look an old
sport car badly parked,
seems like an asynchronous
joke from the fabric
of Spacetime and the
Texture of Reality.
They wonder if it’s an omen
about the dragging unknown,
a warning of fate distortion.
Suddenly, they climb a bridge,
now both are two little children
from the Ecole élémentaire
Saint Michel, and promise
eternal loving care
in the Parc de l’île Saint-Germain.
The writer crumples
the sheet of the poem,
distracted himself
by the tourist in a kilometer
queue between iron pipes,
Contemporary Artworks
and a strange hunger
for aesthetic knowledge.
–I need a new haircut,
and I will do without delay,
in the surreal barbershop
and hair salon for men
exhibiting wired models
of sailing ship replicas.
Did the old hairdresser
whose pulse hesitate,
have been jeopardized
in another pirate’s afterlife?
(*) Photographs taken before the coronavirus pandemic
Lluís Bussé 