No clue

They’re wearing big jackets
Indeed it’s a cold night
On Line 9
These two Arab guys
Are speaking vehemently
A language I don’t understand
I hear
“No, we don’t blow this train up now
Not enough people”
What they’re really saying is
My sister loves you
I know you love her
Why don’t you just tell her?”
Doesn’t matter
When people don’t understand
They imagine
Yet no one leaves the train
All too tired for this
But for some
Who just wish

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Paris, the day after, I don’t care for your prayers

This morning, there was a strange silence in my street, and it didn’t bode well. Indeed, I live in Paris’ near suburb and today should have been run here a semi-marathon. Every year, on this particular Sunday, I’m awaken early by a rock band playing loudly to encourage all participants. This morning, within this deafening silence, I could hear the chimes of St Cloud’s church, however far it is. What a symbol! What sadness!

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Four Line 9 métro locations
A diagonal, one after another
Right where Armageddon struck
In the night of carnages
These stations were
For once
A safe heaven
And Line 9 trains
Brought survivors

Next day
The city under shock
Line 9 still runs
We’ll resist these assholes!

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