Hemingway gave me Paris
its streets, odors, and shops.
my despair, do not crush the crops
do not knock on the doors of the parish
we will be cursed by the priest.
You go west while I walk East
There's a harmonica playing somewhere
like a tune of my Homeland's scream,
the same alcoholic is drinking around the corner--
everything resembles a dream
everything brings you closer to me,
yet everything makes you distant
There is no money, which means there is no need
There is no money, there is no ****.
Montmartre has its atmosphere.
Even a tower reminds a sphere
We are alive we are looking for sightseeing
One guy looks French but has a black eye
One guy looks happy but he has been sinning
A warm scarf around a bare neck,
And fedora on a shaky head
who said that it is worse in a foreign country?
Who said Paris is far?
Hemingway, you and I are related--
yet we are a century apart
I buy pictures and books
I catch curses and looks
This holiday is always with me
We belong to each other.
My Paris--I'm yours--you're mine
You are a familiar lover.
You live, you hurt, you are confused...
Hemingway gave me Paris….
But it seems used...