Montparnasse, the bohemian quarter;
Its roofs like metal sheets;
The heavy rain falling.
I stand in the street, with my arms outstretched,
As one awaiting a blessing, a benediction,
An inspiration.
The rain runs down my spine
And, in the moment of clarity,
My skin crawls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem