I don’t travel much. I’ve seen London, Venice,

Brussels, Rome, Algiers.

From church to museum

Exhausting any further travel desires.

 

London, coal-hearted, poppy of brick tint,

where they walk asleep.

Venice, sad by dint

Of its old love-body half city and half deep.

 

Brussels, whose square is one rich theater.

Rome, with eyes inhuman

Of castings made of plaster.

Algiers that smells of goat and flower of jasmine.

 

I was never quite glad in those towns that I love;

My heart there suffered bare.

In Paris, it’s all one.

Away from your arms, I feel sick everywhere.

 

Jean Cocteau