On Pont Grenelle she stands,

Watching the Seine carrying what the city lets go.

She sees it flow down from the Isle de France,

Round to Rouen, then to Le Havre and the Atlantic.

It floats to her sister, who straddles the Hudson,

Gazing eastward and listening for news from the land of her birth.

 

What secret messages are they sharing now?

Are they each singing to the tune of their people?

Are they fighting with the angry words of the schoolyard?

Do they throw daggers like missiles in the battle across these distant waves?

 

Or do they weep, and thank their maker for their skin of steel,

To withstand the blows from their flesh and blood cousins?

Is that a smirk they wear?

Or simply a sad smile worn down by too many tears?

 

If you are quiet. Yes, very very quiet, in the early hours of the morning,

when even Paris is asleep, you will hear this sister sing.

From Pont Grenelle you will hear her say,

Je sais, ma soeur, je sais.

Je sais, je sais, je sais