(Paris)

Walking along the Boulevards
de Strasbourg and Sébastopol
in the direction of rue Monsieur-le-Prince,
just there, on the half-lighted sidewalk, I saw them:
a straggle of homeless souls seeking rest
–some already sleeping–
their out-stretched bodies angled
to stay out of the way, but entrenched,
nevertheless, in the big cityscapes
of our modern days.
There were others, wakeful and talking in the tamped-down
dialect of exiles.
Approaching midnight, July 2015,
and I wondered: into what netherworld had I somehow descended
while strolling along at street level?
Had I crossed some border I didn’t see?
Through what Third World was I now walking?

Later, I was thinking, the authorities are right
to let them sleep on the streets
instead of shivering in the shadows of some jail cell.
Sleep, roving mortals, although without pillows,
sleep, whole families,
as night presses on.
Sleep, mother with your three little ones
on a blanket on the ground.
Sleep, sleep, little girl in the little pink skirt.

A person might wonder in passing:
If there be a God here on earth
(God in Heaven, it seems, is too far away)
couldn’t He better shelter these beings
driven off of their native lands?
What kind of exile leads to
settling on pavement?
How is it their fault, what sin could have derailed the lives
of these crumpled masses abandoned to dream
in the arms of this stifling night?

Right there, I stopped short,
broke the rhythm of the street.
Woe are the thirsty,
who must bear their thirst until the following day.
Here: I come bearing bliss in a bottle of water,
it’s all I have to give you tonight.
May each swig bring some needed relief.

Meanwhile, scattered neon signs
continued their sleepless glow: KFC Restaurant,
McDonald’s, Le Central, Sebastopol Market,
Euro Fried Chicken, Cuisinella.
Passersby looked either indifferent
or in a hurry to get back to their homes.
The flow of cars and buses
towards Gare d l’Est…Gare du Nord did not pause.

At last, with all of the strength in my deliberate stride,
I crossed the Seine,
like a boundary between two worlds, leaving behind
that living testament to human affliction–
the underbelly of progress.
The clock struck twelve,
and from the towers of Notre Dame
…not a single bell
rang out to herald a new day.

In another year or two or five,
will those huddled bodies
still be living
in that same wasteland
or will others follow…and then others to take their place?
If there be a God here on earth
(God in Heaven, it seems, has turned a blind eye)
may He shed light on these deformed forms;
may He sweep the streets clean with compassion,
and save from inclemency, once and for all,
this tableau of people settled on pavement.


Translation: Lisa Horowitz