Mapped not by miles, kilometers, or rods,
our Paris has no boundaries in space.
Crack the clacking clocks, dethrone the false gods
of eternity. Then, we will deface
their measurements, mass, volume, false extents;
we’ll have no traffic with their stubborn lies;
a bold geometry, our love invents:
angles, arcs, towers – cathedralize!
Their histories unravel into myth,
our myths obtain the strength of history;
and Paris, a golden apple with
this kiss, my Venus, you, my ecstasy.
Parispace, Paristime, Parismass,
our own dimensions will prevail, Alas!