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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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
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