Travel guide: Bridges in Shadow, City of Light | EUROtoday

Travel notes from the true France. Travel guide is a weekend Personal Travel Story in France smells in by readers. If you need to write down a narrative for journey diary, head right here for particulars on how one can submit.

I.

Tea Tournelle bridge Cradled my picture at dawn,

Its Stones Slick With August’s Amber, Sultry Breath.

Below, the Seine Wore Vanishing Night Like A Velvet Scarf,

Stitched with Rippling Gold –

The River’s Pulse Against My Ribs,

a price i might Seldom Known.

Here, Peace shouldn’t be a phrase however a sluggish unfurling:

Paris pressed its thumb to my stressed soul

and Said Stay. . .

I amours.

II.

A café flesh turns into a chantry.

Steam curls from the cup like a votive thread,

AS Hours dissolves from People-Watching and

The Murmur of Strangers Knitting Their Stories

Into the Air. The Parks, Lone Like Open Palms,

Each bench an affirmation, every neighborhood a dialect

of Memory. I stroll UNTIL THE CENTURIES

Blur— Haussmann’s Bones, Medieval Shadows –

and I’m each pilgrim and ghost within the labyrinth.

III.

America Lives within the Marrow of My Spine:

Its Sky A Yawning Basilica, Highways

Like arteries via Our Cities’ Thirst.

There, I’m a speck within the eye of the horizon,

Swallowed by Cornfields and City Canyon Breath.

Smallness there’s Both Cage and Catalyst –

no cobblestone grip, simply the mountain’s hymn

Urging my veins to echo its boundless key.

I Forget A Bagel’s Doughy Weekend Embrace,

A Taste of Home that Paris can’t surpass.

But when French Pastry Sweetens, It Steals the Memory.

Yet I Crave the American Art of Overflow—

Strangers who provided Their Lives Like Open Books,

Their Laughter LOUD AS KLAXONS, AND SMILING.

Iv.

Two Geographies Now Orbit My Pulse:

One, a City of Elegance and Quayside Stars,

Where Time Flows Like Its Languorous River;

The different, a Land of Unbridled Sky,

Where the Bodies Swell Like A Rising Wonderbread.

Paris Offers Me Stillness, America – It’s Just Supersized.

I Carry Both within the Cradle of My Stride,

A Citizen of Thresholds, Forever Translating

The Grammar of Bridges, The Syntax of Light.

V.

I like How France Turns Time to Honey –

Slow-Dripped within the Boulangerie’s ocher Radiance,

Where Flour-Dusted Hands Cradle The Morning’s First bread,,

Its Crust Coarsened by Fire and Patience.

I like the best way the bridge Saint-Louis Musicians

Splay Bach throughout the Seine, Their Notes

Colliding with the crowds crossing from island island,

As if Even on the pavement, Beauty Insists.

Paris, you’re a language i style:

Amorino ice Melting on Autumn Tongues,

The Rasp of A BookVendor’s guide

OPERING TO FOXED Pages of Jean Cocteau.

Your streets are a glossary of iron balconies,

APRICOT LIGHT POOLING IN provider,,

and the tender sh-sht of Shutters Closing

Like my final whisper to my mom::

see you quickly; See you tomorrow my mom!

I like the vanity of her historical past –

How a flower stall blooms beneath napoleon’s arch,

How the Ghost of Piaf Still Stumbles

Through Belleville’s suburb FOG.

In the flea market,,

Centuries Huddle in Dust: A Rusted Key,

A 1912 Postcard titled “I’m waiting for you in the Tournelle…”,

Like Warped Vinyl Spinning My Grief With Ashes.

You educate me to stay slantways to the current,

to curate my days like a stroller with no vacation spot.

And France, past the town’s fats –

your washer fields stitching the south,

The Atlantic’s Brine Carving Normandy’s Cliffs,

Burgundy the place grapes candy with tales

Older Than Borders. I like the way you Earth

Remembers: Gaulish bones, resistance hymns,

The Ink of Sartre’s Pen Still Wet On The Sidewalk Cafés

the place he rewrote the world.

VI.

Yes, Paris, you scoff when i name you mild –

Your winters gnaw, your forms bites.

But what’s love if not selecting the grit

Beneath the Glitter? I like your contradictions:

tea Chic a sure age

With Her Poodle and Cigarette,

tea hobo Who Rimbaud Sacites

to pigeons on the Quay of megisserie,

Where Tanners Made Their Medieval Dwellings.

You are a mirror that fractures I into tower shapes.

America Lives in My Lungs, Vast and Bash,

however France, you circulation in my veins –

a quiet vinification of grapes and terroir,

of Stone that pulsates when the moon licks the seine.

I lengthy to not be simply as a visitor right here.

But when the chestnuts bloom their pink delirium,

I wish to be the basis; when the lumps Glitter,

I wish to be the water lapping their hulls –

The Seine’s Tongue Patient,

Whispering, “You are Both Root and Ripple.”

The Bridge is Neith River Nor Sky,

But the Breath Between – Now,

I KNEAD MY DAYS LIKE DOUGH:

Half Bagel, Half Baguette,

Split Down the Seam of Longing.

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Lead Photo Credit: St Louis and the Tournelle Bridge in Paris © Shutterstock