FRANCE'S EDMOND JABES

Sand is sand
in the welter
counting the stones
in Egypt and Paris
with an exiled bicycle
yet with handful of poems
in your full arms
through the Sorbonne
by the Seine's water
dividing the silence
of the bleakest dawn
and the flow of despair
birds come back
with you in the rising bubbles
of airy pockets
in a cloud veiled sky watch
by centuries of persecution
your eyes are bottled
from the subterranean tears
of surrealist poets
like Eluard who reach
out to touch you,
still missing the love
and advice of Max Jacob
murdered by the Nazis
in their desperate attempt
to destroy liberty, fraternity
poetry and freedom.