The summer solstice dies away.

A beautiful city, a turbulent life.

Yet government and war cause so much strife.

In a few hours, “les rues” will bustle with people,

Their European cars and motor scooters expel away,

Fashion stores with new names will have their sales,

Since souks have turned into malls.

The honks and the news will blast their expected sounds.

Like laissez-faire, the markets and stocks will be pitch black.

Yet in this desolate hour the streets rest.

Away from the past bullet shells and uranium blasts,

So that refugees can become citizens and practice life.

Like a blanket with stones, the streets get uncomfortable.

For this winter, it’s the airport that seems to be “home sweet home.”

There’s a sort of connection here that resonates

And that no one else can see.

Perhaps it’s where the danger is,

Where we are secretly pleased.

France and Israel left.

All there is,

Is the influence of them both.

Downtown is the shrine of light that sticks out.

Beyond that, it’s just subtlety with exigent distress.