The blind beggar plays
to the tune of the river,
a Parisian lullaby;
une ode à la Seine
to deliver.
Oh, quickened street,
oh, passing joy;
my concrete slab,
my Helen of Troy.
Please stay with me now,
my dear wine-soaked friend,
do not linger on beginnings;
nor focus upon
the end.
We’ll sing over coffee
just to welcome November,
a Parisian ensemble;
une chanson pour la saison,
dying ember.
Oh, rainy skies,
oh, painted prize;
my lucid dream,
set before my eyes.
Please stay with me now,
my idealised sight,
do not lend to compromise;
in these foreign streets
of no plight.
And the blind beggar still plays
that tune of the river,
a Parisian lullaby;
une ode à la Seine,
et chaleur pour l’hiver.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
The blind beggar plays
to the tune of the river,
a Parisian lullaby;
une ode à la Seine
to deliver.
Oh, quickened street,
oh, passing joy;
my concrete slab,
my Helen of Troy.
Please stay with me now,
my dear wine-soaked friend,
do not linger on beginnings;
nor focus upon
the end.
We’ll sing over coffee
just to welcome November,
a Parisian ensemble;
une chanson pour la saison,
dying ember.
Oh, rainy skies,
oh, painted prize;
my lucid dream,
set before my eyes.
Please stay with me now,
my idealised sight,
do not lend to compromise;
in these foreign streets
of no plight.
And the blind beggar still plays
that tune of the river,
a Parisian lullaby;
une ode à la Seine,
et chaleur pour l’hiver.
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