Love, 8 pm

 

…and every day, at 8 o’clock

The world for me would stop,

I’d strain to see La tour Eiffel –

Rather, just the tower top

 

But that was good enough – it was

Requited, timeless love,

Shimmering stars in mortal lands

Reflecting stars above

 

There she’s be at dusky 8,

Come rain or storm or snow,

Sparkling with a million lights,

In gilt and gold, aglow

 

Shining spangles, Paris sky

Bokeh of hope alight,

To make me smile - For you, this much

I can always stand and fight

 

And all the homesickness there be

Would melt in amber lights,

And timeless peace would fall upon

Cite’s silent nights

 

In a place with dreamy lights like these,

How could you not love and cry?

So much that years have passed, and still

I yearn and smiling sigh

 

 That the city was not a soul alone,

She was an emotion,

A universe of a thousand muse,

The lights – her strongest sun

 

A lighthouse in the darkest seas

To bring the artist back

Gifting him hues when all he had

Were white and pensive black

 

Those colours spray my canvas still,

So timeless was her love,

Shimmering stars in mortal lands

Reflecting stars above

 

And sometimes when the colours dry,

And life turns out, a bit too tame,

I close my eyes, the tower lights,

And love returns at 8 pm…

 

14^th October’ 23

 

For three and a half months, we lived – struggled, played, explored and exhilarated - in the heart of Paris. In the hostel of Cite Universitaire, life was often difficult, but it was worth the effort, for outside lay Paris, city of dreams, lights and love. Paris was a box of emotions, tied with artistry and wrapped with inspiration. And her strongest source, for me, were the shimmering lights of her Tower tall – there was something in those psychedelic spangles, that seemed timeless, eternal and full of life. And every day, I would wait to see them sparkle at 8 pm from a corner of Cite’s kitchen. It almost turned a ritual of feel-goodness, as if stamping time and again and reinforcing the dream called Paris.

Even today, when I get reminded of that brief stay - a line by Hemingway, or a song from Amelie – the first reminiscence are the shimmering lights, melting in gold, amber and tangerine, as seen, from the slit of window, yet all pervasive in the darkness of a winter sky, standing strong, timeless, reliable, always at 8 pm…