Pierre Gringoire's Journal

Thought I smelled roses on streets with no names,
and I go like a beggar from door to door
and I almost resemble the shape of the crimes
not committed on street-corners anymore.

Thought I heard bells from the tower last night,
and I sing like a pigeon encased in stone
and it clings so my wings are too heavy for flight
so I nest like the rest of the cripples: alone.

Thought I could taste you like wine from the sky
and my lips be relieved of their terrible thist
and the salt and the fire be washed out of my eyes,
for of all storms I've weathered through, you were the worst;

but there is no perfume against city squallor,
and there is no music this clamor can't drown,
and rose-wine goes sour, the rose-petals pallor,
c'est l'amour macabre from a fool with a crown.