Joris Iven

7   Epilogue

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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