Celluloid

The Celluloid is drying on my fingers,
passing Louvre on my right side,
they closed down Montmartre,
I passed by last night.

With a piece of sugar on my spoon
and a lit match in my hand,
taste the substance
of the nineteenth century bohème.
I prepare for a film noir night.

Places fade with time,
they fade with time.

Passing him on the pavement
the reflection of Henry Carter-Bresson
his silverstained paper places fade.
Flame, flame.

The celluloid has dried on my hands,
seeing the Ferris wheel turn in the distance,
this chemical substance
burns easy in your mind
I prepare for film noir night.

Places fade with time
they fade with time.