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.
Today is the second time this poem by has come my way.
The first time I was moved by it, shared it with a friend, and then kind of forgot about it.
And for those of you who don't know me, I loved it. Love it. Even now when I can see a bit beneath its knickers Paris continues to enchant.
So thanks to whoever realised that I was still unsure about our future - Paris and mine., and sent me the poem again. Apparently I am meant to stay. And live. And die. Maybe in a rainstorm.