It’s the salty breeze from the St. Laurent

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 Andes Mountain

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 St. Paul

My mind lingers in the dimples of Genie’s pink round face