Each morning my youth stands empty in the house by the sea.
Sleep has swallowed up the vision
Of the bather who sought passion and who disappeared;
I remember only the dream of the dried-up sea,
Dry in all its depths, and without hierarchies,
Dark as the crypt of the church at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer
Where, in the warmth of candle flames, Sarah stands.