She sat quite alone at a sidewalk café,

on a street near the Seine and the Musee D’Orsay,

silver hair shining through the shadows of leaves,

trembling above her, caressed by the breeze,

loves past and lost years, were those tears in her eyes,

when softly she smiled, as one who soon cries,

then picked up her glass of red tinctured wine,

with an elegant hand I wished could touch mine,

and drank again memories of rebellions and art,

As we sat there united, at tables apart.