By Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

People I knew

lived in the quarter,

which no longer exists.

Those streets between La Narcisse

and New Moon

where Steinbeck lived,

and Cézanne;

but also bums, hookers,

crooks, zany characters...

Harmless pleasures and

vicious desires

filled the streets

and a touch of adventure,

the loneliness of sleazy hotels.

Neon light on the wet asphalt,

as colour copy,

forming a mirror image.

At 3 o clock in the night

you need a coffee,

or an illusion, a sweet lie.

Lonely wanderer, like a snail

without a house,

walking into the small hours.

Not where you have been born,

but where you came to life

is your home.


Published on April 21, 2023




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