Fluctuat nec mergitur
O Lutetia, you’ve seen these seas before;
Seas roiling, and red with blood.
Raise your head now bowed in sorrow. Look up!
Montmartre: the Mons Martyrum,
Where gore and gaiety have embraced in a danse macabre
For centuries. During the siege, did you despair, Clovis?
Or you, Henri? Wasn’t the city well worth a Mass?
Terror has rained down on you. You’ve emerged confident.
Liberté, Liberté cherie
Tonight your proud tower is dark.
You are tossed but not sunk.
— Linda Gasparello
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