Autumn in Paris

The Champs-Elysée was blackened by the bodies on the ground,Its beauty tainted by hopeless eyes that hid amongst the crowds,The crowds who were indifferentWho simply walked on by. We listened on the metro,To their stories, troubled lives.I couldn’t really speak French,But I could read within their eyes The horrorThe pain The suffering and the sorrowAs they sold their stories on the train And in exchange for what? Disgusted glancesShameful staresIgnorancePityFear And perhaps, occasionally, twenty centsTossed nonchalantly into a paper cup,A conscience eased as shoeless feet shuffled further down the train,A perpetual journeyWhy? Pennies tossed in paper cups are not real change.