Promenade

The essence of the unknown beckons;
Anonymously she pulls from beyond.
Drawing me from the safety of the cemented facade.
"Come follow me" she whispers gingerly.
Then by the hand we join the parade.
Many others follow us along the winding roads.
A lady pedals along the cobblestone path;
treasures tucked away neatly in her basket.
A greasy man rolls his addiction tightly in paper and awaits his ride.
Young friends pass a ball amongst themselves and chatter away.
Light shines on the parade as it peaks through the glass bent into a spectrum.
We have become more acquainted and she is ready to give me her name; calling herself France.