Place des Vosges

I think the word they use is
désenchantée.
She is bellowing a
common sad tune.

The last remnants
of green on trees.
More common people
trample the yellow, brown.

The city of love
is but a reflection
of travelers caught
by the most common song.

If the kings ordered
it to be differently,
and troops again
rampaged this plaza

No chance

When all I want
is to be king to
a queen, but instead
I live amongst voyagers,

In a foreign city
That devours my soul
Each pigeon nipping
and tearing at me.