Stylo Noir in Paris

I walk in the streets of Paris, painted in grey.
And i feel like an ancient soul, trapped here.
That lingers, here.

Persons i see – a big part of them-
Seem to me like feathers.
Light, unconscious, small, beautiful feathers.
They are pushed by the Wind.

A Wind that decide where they have to go
The Rhythm,  intensity and shapes.
They fly away, all around me.

And here I am
like an Old stone into a garden of feathers.
A rude, ancient stone, with my eyes wide opened.

Everyday i stand
Alone and strong
The wind whispers at me, tries to blow me away in his chaotic dance.
But here i stay, huge, motionless
Here I linger
with my faith, my useless presence, while thousands of Feathers
Dance all around me,
Puppets of the Wind God.

Everyday i stand
Everyday i write for them
Because i know that all these Feathers, together
Would become a powerful Bird
A Bird with strong wings
a deep voice, and an understanding of the geometry of the Universe

Capable to tame this Wind
To use him to reach Freedom.

Everyday i stand
As an ancient Stone
With my ancient and forgotten stories.

Maybe next time, i’ll be a Bird.