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like to know about my Father and

      my Mother, that’s all!

      Bernhard grabbed Mary Jane’s hand,

      led her to the shadow of

      a large chestnut tree.

      The two walked meeting the sun,

      in an absurd frame.

      A backlit picture where:

      A little girl with bright blond hair,

      who goes away on her back, bent on one side.

      Like a tired and shabby old lady,

      holding a little mouse’s hand.

      Walking by his side,

      towards the light of the East.

       What an absurd scene!

      The great ones and the unimaginative ones would say.

      But so it was!

      5

      It was a warm sunny Saturday morning,

      Paris had woken up in the scent

      of heated butter from the boulangeries and

      in the fragrance of freshly baked baguettes and croissants.

      The light is reflected and split

      into so many colors in the windows of shops,

      as a good wish for that Sunday feast day.

      Mary Jane seemed hypnotized

      in seeing people and smelling in the air

      all those tasty scents,

      which she had almost forgotten.

      Thomas and Bernhard followed her as two small shadows, like guardian angels,

      along the low sidewalks of Ville Lumière.

      Mary Jane seemed lost to follow with her eyes and with all her five senses,

      the joy, the frenzy and the daily beat of life she did not know yet.

      She could see life in bystanders, people and

      among the kisses of the lovers.

      In the light of her first free morning,

      within the sweetest city in the world.

      It was a stunning Saturday morning

      in the sky above Paris.

      Everything seemed perfect in the Universe

      and in the flow of daily things.

      A beautiful spring day which would donate millions of stars when the evening would have dressed it in black and brilliant stars.

      At Ladurée House, Madame Tussauds

      looked like a crazy hysterical.

      She went roaming the halls, yelling at all the servants, with unbearable and raspy voice,

      like a nail scratching the blackboard

      in the empty classroom silence.

      A sour note in the perfection

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