This is where you walked.

Pont neuf, rue Mazarine.

This is where you taught.

This is where you sat.

This is where you slept

with no thought of wife or bride.

This is where you allowed a girl

to take you. This is where you

learned the curious language

of the tongue. This is where

you thickened with the love

of it, a native son on foreign

soil, at last you found your home.

So far away, your family slept,

ignorant of the heart's betrayal,

how it turns in on itself, clicks

and murmurs, sends the blood

back, flowing east to the

slated greys of France .