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  • The homeless musician of Champs Elysées

    Plays an old jazzy piece with a rusty saxophone.

    The pure sound of his music pierces my heart.

    It sounds like my cry when we fell apart.

    I stop and I stare at him; a tear falls down

    Against his cheek, but he keeps playing.

    I feel his body shaking and his brown

    Eyes, full of pain, are bringing

    Me back to you.

    Love is killing us. Slowly. Surely.

    Love kills brave musicians

    And young ladies.

    Today, a young Parisian brat

    Felt random homeless musician’s pain.


    Remember the rainy streets of Paris?

    When Odéon’s bookshop was our shelter

    When walking on Paris’ roofs you were my Christ

    When your lips tasted like salty butter

    In the backyard of Saint Germain’s church you were restless

    You sensually said “you’ll be my Mary and I’ll be your God”

    But chéri, Coke was already your mistress

    That bitch made you so different, so odd

    I thought that Paris’ rain would take away my cry

    We would have ended up old and happy in Tuscany

    “I’ll leave her, I promise” you knew that was a lie

    Secretly I knew you loved Her more than me

    I didn’t know that little Jesus was already in my body

    We both know that rehab is not a place for a baby.


    god is full of mercy

    To those who implore him.

    Janis asked him for a Mercedes-Benz

    And all she got is death—

    Between two doses of crappy crack.

    Oh god, would you bless me?

    I wanna get published

    And I wanna sell my stuff.

    I promise I’ll praise you

    And I’ll tell everyone

    It’s thanks to you.

    Oh Lord lemme be the literary Mercedes-Benz

    I’ll tell ‘em, you’ll see,

    That it’s thanks to thee.


    Deep blue, the bay is deep

    And my eyes are blue

    Deep blue, I know you keep

    Living, while I vainly try to sweep

    What is left from you.

    You kept leaving during my sleep

    And from sadness to sorrow I now leap.

    I only have my blue eyes to cry you

    And god knows they still creep.

    My tears descend into the bay. Reap. Reap.

    You fuckin’ broke my heart in two.

    Bay Harbor’s bay is nothing but a heap

    Made of my cries.

    I burst in tears but who

    Cares? Deep Blue. I hope the bay will swallow you.


    He used to call me ‘chérie’

    Between two glasses of martini.

    His black hair danced around

    The windmills of my mind.

    Euphoria. Euphoria. Euphoria.

    I fell in love with a pariah

    Who made me travel

    With a white magic powder.

    We went to Rome, Milano, and Lausanne

    And we would fatally end up in Saint-Anne.

    Cause every time we came back

    Chérie’s lover would get dark.

    Euphoria. Euphoria. Euphoria.

    Chérie got killed by a pariah.





    Wine glass is empty,

    It distorts your face.


    This house remains.

    The loud silence resonates



    My ears.

    I’m tired of hatin’ you,

    You’re tired of my fears.



    Wedding ring proudly

    Stands near the empty glass.

    The glass is slowly getting full

    Of dead promises, while the



    Is on its way to greet us.

    We don’t have a roof

    To protect our heads,

    For we destroyed it

    With our own hands.




    About The Author

    Beraha Sellem

    Beraha graduated in June from Touro College with a major in English Literature. Ms. Sellem previously attended La Sorbonne University in Paris. Born and raised in the French capital, Beraha moved to the United States two years ago with her three year old son Ezra. Her father, a Parisian rabbi and a retired professor versed in literature and philosophy, encouraged his daughter to be an avid reader from a very young age. With this type of childhood exposure, Ms. Sellem eventually developed an eclectic taste for literature; her bookshelf is filled with books from all around the world and in various languages, French, English, Hebrew, Arabic, and Spanish. She uses her writing as a platform to explore and to express her feelings in regard to existence, god, and motherhood.