Beneath the cobblestones

Pavés ronds anciens en noir et blanc, avec des bouches d'égout circulaires le long d'un mur.

The passing of time on the stones of old cities. What the streets have seen, what they go on carrying, silently.

Pavés anciens aux teintes grises et noires, disposés en éventail sur une place pavée.
Rue pavée la nuit, éclairée par un réverbère, vue en clair-obscur sépia à travers une arche.

departures, trains,

faces, hands

held, then let go

small tears, small dramas,

warm tears rolling down children’s cheeks,

in their parents’ eyes

embraces, trains

touching down

— grey airports

that, once you’ve gone,

fade into the complicit night

one day, you saw on the platform a book left on a bench,

and the emerald wind turns its light pages,

a little too fast

and then:

getaways, narrow escapes, returns, laughter, other departures, more bitter

but also:

smiles that stay, this time for good, in our small suitcases,

in our pockets,

in our hearts filled

with tears and journeys.

and other trains, faster now,

already carrying you toward a stop with no name

on the empty platform,

the emerald wind no longer blows,

and the pages have stopped turning

you have arrived.