(Part 8 of the Europe Collection. A monologue to the streets of Caen, Normandy, from that time I got hopelessly lost and frustrated.)
Once upon a time
A young girl got lost in your streets.
You knew she didn’t belong there.
‘Que faites-vous ici, fille?’
(or so a street could say, if it could talk.)
But a street cannot talk
If it could, maybe it would tell the girl which way to go.
What do you care?
Tons of people may get lost in your streets every day.
And it makes little difference
To a city that’s seen the rise
(and the fall)
of a great duke
War and devastation
Been there, done that.
You hold churches, shops, schools and gardens
The single bone of a mighty ruler
And a huge sprawling castle
The passage of time seems like an endless parade
Which you watch, dormant, silent
So what difference
Does one lost, foreign girl make?