Grand buildings in Paris
They are made with limestone
So are many bridges, sidewalks
And city monuments
These stones quarried locally
Left huge empty spaces
Hidden far beneath the city streets
Underneath Paris
There is a network of subterranean
Chambers and passages
Extending hundreds of kilometers
From the Roman-era
Near the end of the 18th century
When real estate was scarce
While the cemeteries were full
Some of the quarries
Converted into a mass tomb
Turned into a depository
For the bones of dead Parisians
* * *
I walk up the metro exit
I cross the street
The entrance is there
To a portion of the catacombs
Officially open to the public
It is a black door
In a small green building
It is very un-assuming
It could easily be missed
If you blink while walking by
Flashlight in hand
I enter the building
Pay the entrance fee
I descend down
A long stone spiral staircase
I go down and down
Around and around
The temperature dropping
The light becoming dimmer
The lower I get
I go well under the city
Beneath the metro and the sewage
The many steps lead me down
To a small chamber
Leaving the chamber
I then go down a long dark tunnel
I am now some 30 meters
Under the surface of Paris
It is very wet and damp
Icy cold water drips steadily
From the ceiling all around me
I am walking on wet gravel
Crushing and grinding them
Making crunching sounds
Soon I approach my destination
* * *
A sign on top of the doorway says
‘Stop – this is the empire of the dead’
But I go in anyway
It is truly another world
One of the strangest
Most stunning things
I’ve ever seen
It is indeed sublime
At first, I shuffle along
In amazement
I simply cannot believe
What I am looking at
I am immediately overwhelmed
Nothing in life so far
Has prepared me
For such a sight as this
The empty quarries are filled
With orderly piles of human bones
The skeletons are neatly stacked
They are aligned to form
The walls of walking passages
Nearly one kilometer long
Tibias and femurs
Stacked up by the thousands
Interspersed with rows of skulls
Sometimes arranged to form a cross
There are various other intricate designs
Arcs, valentine hearts, and other shapes
Made with bones throughout the tomb
They are often strangely decorative
Even oddly exquisite
As a tribute to so many dead
The meticulous care in the arrangement
It is an attempt to provide
Dignity and beauty to the deceased
For they were moved
From their resting places
In a less than respectful manner
There is often a row of skulls
In the middle of the walls
Another row topping it all off
Many skulls are missing
All the bones below the cranium
Most skulls are missing
Their lower jaw bones
I reach out and touch them
Their surface is very cold
I gaze into eyeless sockets
It is truly fascinating
* * *
Here the catacombs are at their wettest
The constant drip slowly forming
Small puddles on the floor
Stalactites on the ceilings
It is gluing all the bones together
Giving them a shiny glaze
The whole place is of course very eerie
Yes, it is ghastly and ghoulish
It is very quiet and dark
The only noise comes from
The sounds of water dripping
The whispers of tourists
The only light is from
The dim floodlights
Handheld flashlights
And camera flashes
The catacombs smells
Very musty and moldy
It is airless, stale, and stuffy
* * *
In many ways
This place is depressing
It makes me think about death
My own death
Death of my loved ones
It is a reminder
Death is always chasing us
It is only a few steps behind
But inevitably one day
It will catch us all
Nevertheless, it is hard not to be moved
And in some sense touched
By the sheer mass of dead humanity
I stop and remind myself
These people all had lives
Connections, loved ones, and names
Every one of them was a person
Felt pain and pleasure
Wanted to be happy and loved
Some were very intelligent
They lived interesting lives
There must be poets, philosophers
Artists among these remains
I imagine some of them
Were probably brilliant and unique
What can not be missed is
The bones of these millions of people
Are all much the same
In this place
The skull of an aristocrat
May be resting calmly
On the leg bones of a revolutionary
Or the other way around
Here rich and poor, young and old,
The fool and the wise, man and woman
All are indistinguishable and intertwined
It reminds me that in death then
We are all very equal
There are many Latin and French
Epigrams, dictums, and poems everywhere
Making keen and often
Paradoxical observations
One of them says:
You are a fool to assume
You will live a long time
Indeed, you can not be sure
If you’ll make it through today
My favorite reads:
Do not fear death,
But fear the inadequate life
Another in the same vain:
People, go after your dreams
Seek lofty aims and aspirations
For the world is transitory
It is over all too soon
I think that
Seeing the catacombs
It is not something
I will be able to forget
Nor would I want to
--Rotterdam, Netherlands
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