Sought to trace
White Russian Princess’
Footsteps,
In taxi-stand on Rue d’ Bac where
White-guard general stood to salute her smile.
In tunnels of the Metro-underground
I fell behind the fast-paced
Steps,
Mesmerized by the akordeon player’s
Moroccan songs – empty, my heart
Was for the tunes of these songs.
In Louvre Japanese commercial crowwwwwwwwwwwwwd
Blocked my flirtatious eyesight with Mona Lisa,
But D’ Orsay made up,
Cezzane, Renoir, Monet and Degas –
What a 5th floor on this house,
Did I forget to mention Van Gogh’s, whose
Brilliance is never uptight?
In Marias I looked for communist Picasso,
Did not know Pablo’s house was in this
Bourgeois ghetto ,
His romantic ideals withered with time,
But his genius art forever immortal
I asked Sorbonne, isn’t your house
But one?
Then, why one becomes beastly like Chuan Lai
Or Pol-Pot – genocide killing fields’ generals –
And one becomes a liberal like Dr. Bakhtiar
Whose throat is soaked with blood in your house?
What color is your true identity
Or hospitality,
Tehran-bound- Cleric and his entourage,
Making my home a dark-ages museum;
Or your harmonica claiming to
Harmonizing Palestinian and Jew?
In St. Germain, in St. Michelle or by
Opera,
I watched north-African boys seducing
Local gals,
The half-Algerian- `n-half-French
Blue-eyed, dark velvet-skin read my palm
Saying, “There is a princess in your house.”
I asked for another Bordeaux
Saying, “City-of-Lights is not for
Liars but lovers,
But this soul is just too old.”
Yet, claiming to be a Qajar descendant
Blood, she kept on coming on.
Who was I to say no to the princess
Under the decorative lighting pole,
The Eiffel was glittering with lights,
Champs Elysees was wide and soaked
With pouring from above,
And, I was as Monarchist as the night.
