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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