In Paris, a bust of Dalida
Punctuates the singer’s neighborhood,
Marks a large love.
The bronze likeness, silent watcher,
Wears well its darkness,
Except the rounded breasts
Which gleam golden on
Passersby, looking for luck,
Or boys wanting practice,
Have rubbed and robbed them
Of their nut-brown hue.
Dalida, with half-lidded eyes fixed
On space that rests above mortal plane,
Forgives this familiarity.
Her house reveals this moment’s tenant
With one open window, the curtain undulating,
A sheer belly dancer, on December drafts.
But in the past, this tower home watched
Love’s crests and falls,
Watched glittering awards and fame
Fail to delight the soul it tried to sustain,
Watched Dalida write words to break
The world’s faithful heart.
No longer could she resist shadows
And mists that rise on further shore.
No longer could she move as goddess
On paths of this world. In May’s soft glow
When all others woke to life fresh and bright,
She set her course Sunward.
Leaving Earthbound humans unable to follow,
Mourning after her like Zeus