In Search of Sacré-Cœur

Before they cast me out to pastures new,
I was a carrier pigeon,
holder of truths.
I soared above borders,
over grey stone walls I flew,
gliding past cold fences,
bearing tidings, old and new.

Yet, in this feathery plight,
I could not read the signs;
their secrets lay hidden,
in the shadows of my mind.
What if my wings were clipped by a king?
What if I served Pablo Escobar’s dark gang?

Now, I’m retired,
my journey stretched wide,
en route to France,
where the sun dapples and glides.
I’ll feast on baguettes,
on croissants, so divine,
and revel in the richness
of stinky cheese and wine.

Puffed up in content,
I’ll freewheel to Sacré-Cœur,
with joy in every feather,
and at last, I’ll leave my mark -
a tribute to the skies,
for the freedom I now chase,
a pleasing dash of art,
for the city of embrace.