The streets of Paris

Paris in the morning is silent.
The cobbled streets are washed away,
water & soap,
to erase any trace of victory.
It does not matter,
victory is forever engraved in hearts & minds.
Party at Bastille was euphoric,
as was once,
in 1789,
when tyranny fell to its knees,
was crushed by liberty,
by wanting justice.

The midget is gone,
I heard someone shout.
And the king is no more.
He wears no more a transparent robe
or stuffs himself with gold
he no longer hides away inside his fortress,
or send to death an innocent man.

Now,
transparency,
and hope,
and love,
is worn like a heart on the sleeve.