Boulevard Poem by August Mishell

Boulevard of endless possibility
crowded of splendid dreams, ours...
And i'm sure that I will return to the life
Passing for silent planted with trees avenues
Or again noisy boulevard
crowded of rich and alone people
where all is bought and it sells
except the happiness, except our hearts
where the refined marbles are resplendent
except my face, except your soul
And coffees recall the 'Belle epoche',
extinguished from more than a million years by now....

But it doesn't care.
I will arrive. You will arrive.
We will return to the life.