Way down below in the streets of Paris

I spied a small lonely boy.
I was his beautiful red balloon,
from morning through to noon,

through to the silvery moon.
The boy held me tight.
I waited as he dreamed me at night,

waited for first light
when we would wander the streets together,
in any kind of weather –

me, floating like a feather.
Not lonely now, I am his shadow.
Not sad now, I am his echo.

Not bored now, I am his meadow.
I am not a play thing; his loyalty
pulls at my long heart string.

From Red Cherry Red. 

• finding out more about the film which inspired this poem – Le ballon rouge