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 Little bright cheeked girl,
 With long, sombre braids in a navy wool skirt,
 Dreamed of Paris,
 Sitting on a wooden stool, 
 Sipping hot lemon water,
 Slipping away in a Soviet land.

 Years brought inspiration, aspiration, liberation,
 And with this one fine day,
 In blossoming, plum coloured May,
 Fate introduced itself in the shape of a man.

 Never did his eyes wander away from hers,
 Inciting a pleasant skip in the beating of her hopeful heart.
 Words exchanged and suddenly there it was,
 A confession he lives in the very core of her dream.

 Soon she was there, 
 Finally alive in the boulevards, soaking up the Parisian air.
 The mesmerising beauty of the same idea;
 The houses all the same, all equal,
 Executed so marvellously in cream coloured stone,
 Glowing in the saccharine sunshine of the day.
 
 The cafés where all her childhood idols spent their lives,
 Art greeting a person every step of the way. 
 At night he was by her side,
 As they indulged in red wine in the stuffy attic,
 Laughing away as she sang a lullaby.
 Fate gave her that, just for a while.

 Then took it away to be reasonable,
 Shielding her from the intoxication of this opulence,
 To encourage her to remember this fondly,
 So that one day she would return for more.

 1st of May 2015

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