Cliff standing upright heavy with appearances under the sun's indifference. Your eye, your cheek, your mouth, all the calm in your face resists. After that first wave of suffering — your distractedness, ah! — high memories. You crash, head-on, against those terrors on loop in the fissured silvering. Words fail you. Your story, the story of the universe; authentic and rough. Here are the states of your suffering, your nights to come, a surfeit of sundays, a surfeit of stars. You're looking ahead. Available to the real, to the young century's scented air.

Everything moves you closer to your fear, everything repels you : tomorrow, later, you carry your solitude away. Your portraits of women, the silhouettes to come, your hair, your gestures re-invent themselves. Hope as well, why not? Speck by speck, between sound and silence. It's crazy what two hands can conceal. The skull, besieged dreams. Life acute along the blade of a cliff edge. You say: I am those figures who file past, filled with impertinence, and this brute sky's threat, its droning, its quotidian dark. You say to her: we hold one another .

In one way, the day's events slip into the fog: your amber aspects, the struggles, the challenges, the fatigues, desires, all shatter your thoughts. In another — hand in hand, menagerie and melancholy, it seems — a tenacious child rises up and places herself, sovereign, under the authority of one of your gazes. Now, she says. As though navigating through the obstacles of the inside and the elsewhere. Voilà, that's it exactly, seems so natural, at the most profound, in the self's gravity : reborn. A genuine glimpse of eternity.


English versions by Ken Babstock