The French sound of your name, and the French sound in your words,
fire all the sounds, and start a new harmony –
Rimbaud. What is it even about the gutters of Paris?
But you are not a gutter of Paris. First daughter of the Western Church,
sun-setting beauty behind the Alps,
They even moved the papal seat behind your skirts.
So here I am, old reader of Baudelaire and Verlaine,
Both long-forgotten until your flashlight face dazzled my eyes,
and your lilting feminine chime entered my ears.
I am come to the miraculous statue, moving painting in the Louvre,
A ballade in flesh, a pure whore from the pages of Villon.
I have come for you, old thief and fire stealer, in a melting yesteryear