We are turtle doves,
standing on the Arc.
We can hear clocks, spun
from the Sacred Heart.
We see the lattice,
an iron arrow.
We fleck the river,
reaching the Louvre.
We find our expanse
of life at long last.
We edge towards her
(Mona Lisa) smile.
Our warm hearts flutter,
at odds with the cold.
We see hearts racing
by the Parc des Princes.
The mesh of these days
is beyond worth it.
Our dreams fleck our flesh,
leaving the Louvre.
We form new fixings
by the riverside.
We belong here and
breathe at the same time.
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