I shall die in Paris

I Shall Die in Paris — César Vallejo

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Paris—it does not bother me—
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

This poem found me again today. The first time, it caught me off guard — I shared it with a friend, felt its melancholy beauty, and then let it drift away.

But today, it landed differently. Maybe because life has a way of returning the right words when we need them.

Four years ago, I was given the chance to live in Paris. I had never been, but somehow I knew I would love it. I left my job in big pharma, traded security for uncertainty, and got on a plane. Some called it risky. But really — it was Paris. How bad could it be?

And for those who don’t know me: I loved it. Love it still. Even now, when I can see a bit beneath its knickers, Paris continues to enchant.

So thank you, whoever sent the poem back my way today — a small reminder, perhaps, that I’m meant to stay. And to live. And, one day, to die here too.
Maybe in a rainstorm.