Let’s sum it up; I’m in a break-room, work Begins again in twenty, in which time I barely find the space (or wits) to rhyme, And I am asked to conjure from the murk
O Pandora, we have lost, There can be no golden chest, The immortals don’t know best And we know less than them at most. And we will never be remembered, We will never be forgotten
Paris, Paris, I have not come to light Or spin you, I’ve not come to sing la Senne, My throat seeks no refreshment from your night And I’m not asking where to go or when.
They slide away, the days of yore, From wood to ash, from ash to flame Like pages turning in the frame Of an old book, and then no more. Look: in this question of our hour,
Scared of me? You bet! I've seen your tragic Castles and the holes beneath your cuirass. Paint me stupid – I am full of magic, Bright like stuff of dreams, as warm and true as