Two poems by Timothee Bordenave

On the City Island, Notre Dame de Paris,

Is our Cathedral, where we pray, where we chant,

It is a very tall and very elegant,

Old, medieval building, where my heart ever is.

The stained windows of blues, and reds, and ivory,

Enlighten this whole space with a peaceful ambience,

Of faith, of hopes, and love, and you feel the presence,

Of some holy spirit, there, holy memories…

We have built this big church to offer to Mary,

And to her divine Son, Jesus Christ, all our lives :

The future of our lives, as their past and glory…

Once a fire took its roof, but by miracle,

The place stood still, then the firemen could arrive,

To set flames off. Then we repaired it…

Mystical !

***

In Paris, there is a legend,

That Jesus lives, rue Cordelières,

In a hidden villa, where ends,

A lane… Since our past hundred years.

He reputedly reads a lot,

Of old scriptures and some novels,

Served by a guard of the angels,

He thinks, he prays there, for the most.

Some say, He sometimes walk the streets,

To museums, or bakeries,

Or cafes, anonymously…

To a beggar, apparently,

A man who gifted jewelry…

Could have been Him !

Who knows ?

Him, Christ !