It’s the salty breeze from the
It’s the warm sweat at the terrace
It’s the random smile of the 3-year-old
As I strolled down the vieux port
When the dark-skinned man plays his flute
I heard the heart beat from the
When the green-tied waiter poured me another coffee
I smell the essence of a good life meant to be
When the long-haired painter draw the little girl on the watercolor
I see flowers blooming out of her eyes
When I feel the silky scarf on the gypsy’s vending rack
I touched the pulse of a city
As my feet take my down the old street of
My mind lingers in the dimples of Genie’s pink round face
