I want to talk about my city, <br />Of her tired people who stride over her windy streets, <br />who have eyes wetter than western rains, <br />They work from the morning till evening <br />In arsenals starving for flesh and for sweats, <br />They walk nudes and without honor <br />Against vises which clasp their hearts, <br />I want to speak about my city, <br />Of these storekeepers who sell the past <br />To the visitors coming to plunder the rests of the wind, <br />Of these salesmen of roast chestnuts who the winter <br />Hours stay to shout in the cold wind <br />Cursing the anonymous glance of the passers-by, <br />Of these bakers raised at dawn <br />Who smile by selling warm croissants <br />To customers become foreigners of them own families, <br />I want to speak about my city, <br />Of her wild streets in the flavors of distant salts <br />Of her Russian, American, Indian sailors <br />With eyes cleansed by travels, <br />Of her tramps making the aumone with their mistreated dogs, <br />Of her playboys in short sleeves shirt who bring out their sunglasses <br />if the slightest beam cross the darkness of May, <br />I want to speak about my city, <br />Of her changing sky as a lost compass, <br />Of her beaches with the antique and pure beauty, <br />Of her gulls in the reassuring or irritating shouts, <br />Of her naval base where die too old battleships, <br />Copper-colored frigates by the redness of settings sun, <br />I want to speak about my city <br />As of an unspeakable torture in the other modern cities, <br />Of a city made ugly by the war and remorse, <br />A city identical to the refusal to be loved <br />Who cultivates its soul as a last garden <br />Near the gigantic ocean which invites itself in her fate…<br /><br />John Rolland<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-want-to-talk-about-my-city/
