Daniela Gioseffi

“The Ballad of Philippe Petit
—for the world's greatest rope dancer

Philippe Petit hangs his high wire
in the third eye of God,
fills the dull air with blue fire,
all alone on the big city street,
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Philippe Petit, high priest of daring,
feels wind pulse in his feet,
flying high on his mystical string,
between tall towers above the street.
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Little Phillip by the Golden Fleece,
making Seventh Avenue sing.
He draws a magic circle of chalk,
rides his cycle around in a ring,
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Little Phillip, clown gargoyle,
spewing light on the grey street,
rope dances twirling sticks of fire,
bright sparkle of the dark street,
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Philippe Petit juggles fire and balls,
winks at Zeus, laughs at Mars,
pulls Newton's beard, sups with God,
cycling his way from heaven to street.
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Little Phillip, when we get there,
you'll surely be on high,
juggling molecules for your maker
on the wide streets of the sky,
Little Phillip, Philippe Petit.

Philippe Petit, The King of Heaven
has a brilliant little fool
juggling fire at his footstool.
A light on the dark city street,
A light, a light, Philippe Petit.”
― Daniela Gioseffi