Now you walk in Paris alone among the crowdHerd of bellowing buses hemming you aboutAnguish of love parching you withinAs though you were never to be loved againIf you lived in olden times you would get you to a cloisterYou are ashamed when you catch yourself at a paternosterYou are your own mocker and like hellfire your laughter cracklesGolden on your life's hearth fall the sparks of your laughterIt is a picture in a dark museum hungAnd sometimes you go and contemplate it long
-Guillaume Apollinaire
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