People don't always go out on Wednesdays
And, nevertheless, it rained
And I leaded through the drops and rendered the speeches,
Looked for shelters and smiled to words sounding foreign.
The rain flooded the bars
At the street's margins,
The light's redness implied
And multiplied by dripped lenses.
Solution's suddenly on the left side,
Toward the square in Les Halles,
Populated by Jehovah's Witnesses preaching
To the night's pale and wet shadows.
Everything seems more confusing than verses,
Than drinking my beers,
Excusing myself to the toilet
And being taxed in ten francs.
It's more difficult because there's distance
For harmony and desire.
Before you I see the endless line of men.
Some will beg for sex, some won't have to ask.
I feel it's all more difficult than postcards,
Pictures and paintings of juvenile memories;
Than looking at your eyes and body
As we walk through puddles and japaneses.
It's more difficult than Salade aux Crevettes,
Wine glasses and being told by waitresses
The time to leave.
It's more difficult than opposite directions,
Runway planes and places,
And the gentle shade of similarities.