Paul Éluard

The war is raging in Europe and in his poetry.

The Germans have taken Paris.

I sit at the piano and play my songs.

Éluard sits on the sofa and listens as my notes,

Like iron filings, are pushed and pulled

By the magnetic force of his words.

I have been so afraid. I am still so afraid.

Locked in the dark, dirty shadows. Waiting. Waiting.

But each phrase born from Resistance,

The Queen of Unrest,

Touches – finally touches –

The clean, clear north of me.