Walking down a foreign street at dusk, the air is sweet and crisp.
The ring of a thousand voices and car engines echo in the spring sky above.
The aged buildings of bricks and mortar, made of stone and sweat tower above you. You are a mere ant in this abyss.
You have a destination to keep, a time to meet.
You are on your own, looking at the people walking by, wondering just for a second – where do they go? What do they do?
– it fascinates you.
By Sam Fawcett
One of the first poems I ever wrote.
Parisian Poetry 