The World can be a desolate place, even in Paris...

Translation of Marcel Moreau's " A Paris " by T. Wignesan

IN PARIS

Paris bores me no end without you
My heart weighted down with melancholia
The spleen given over to asthenia
Empties its own sense of loss on to me, too.

Sometimes I revisit this bistro
Over a coffee I remain speechless
Sweetened yet acerbic and joyless
I recall the charm in your words true

Then I amble through the boulevards
The streets and alleys spoking out from thence
Foraging for some spoor of your presence
Some trace of you I find not hereabouts

Those monuments I remember were so elegant
Today I reject them as monstrous abominable
Enveloped in dark coal shades below gables
Robed in hideous scaffoldings repugnant

Lyon Station pounded under a thousand feet
The crowd surging in a hurry, most fearful
Like ants storming plundering plentiful
Beneath the clock tower no chiming bells treat

Austerlitz Station, an insalubrious grinding battle
Austere, wildly noisy and of a temperament savage
Swallows and regurgitates a refluxing sludge
Of people, its unending food-chain to trundle

The Pyramid looms stripped of attention
There before the Louvre now of faded stature
In no way willing to own up to the exposure
Of taking in the Joconde in fleeting succession

Like Her, I too have become a fossil in every way
So I set about moving up along the Champs Elysées
To hang about the great museums of the avenue
Like an unsung mortal of the Grand Palais

Paris still bores me deprived of your presence
From the Champs de Mars to the Notre Dame
Everything looks morbid, I feel by all condemned
During this month's lack of effervescence :

" November exudes a sentiment that's cruel
You do wish to see me drown in the Seine !
On which bridge might one picture the scene ?
Sully, Saint-Louis or Carrousel ? "

© T. Wignesan - Paris, March 1st., 2019

The original in French re-produced with the written permission of the poet :

À Paris - Poem by Marcel Moreau

À Paris, je m'ennuie sans toi…
Mon cœur tagué mélancolie,
Ce spleen, sensible à l'asthénie,
Vidant l'incertitude en moi…

Je reviens parfois à ce bistro,
Devant un café sans éloquence
Sucré d'âcreté déplaisante
Rêvant au charme de tes mots.

Puis j'erre sur les boulevards,
Rues et les voies adjacentes
À l'enquête de l'évidence
Que je ne trouve nulle part.

Ces monuments étaient si beaux,
Aujourd'hui je les abomine
Dans la noirceur qui les domine
Et les hideurs de l'échafaud.

Gare de Lyon, mille piétons,
Foule pressée et alarmante
Comme des fourmis déroutantes,
Sous l'horloge sans carillon.

Gare Austerlitz, l'infect combat
Austère, bruyante et sauvage
Avale et vomit un breuvage
De monde, son continuel repas.

La pyramide sans attrait
Devant ce Louvre humeur flétrie
Ne partage guère l'envie
De voir Joconde aux tirets tirés.

Comme elle, j'ai les traits tirés
À remonter les champs Élysées,
Je me cramponne aux grands musées
Comme un mortel du Grand Palais.

A Paris, je m'ennuie sans toi
Du Champ de Mars à Notre Dame,
Tout est morne, tout me condamne
Et ce mois qui s'attache au choix:

" Novembre au sentiment cruel,
Tu veux me plonger dans le Seine!
Sur quel pont conserver la scène?
Sully, Saint-Louis ou Carrousel? "

(c) Marcel Moreau - Paris