Every Sunday at seven o'clock, turns the crank of the dream machine: what happened, or what will be happening, what could be, and there we go, exaggerating the colors and the smells, the intensity, the emotions, before we come back on earth (not that we ever left, it was all in the mind) Tous les dimanches à dix-neuf heures, tourne la manivelle de la machine à rêve : ce qui est arrivé, arrivera peut-être, ce qui pourrait-être, et on exagère les couleurs et les odeurs, l’intensité, les émotions, puis l’on revient sur terre (pas qu’on l’ait quittée, tout se passe dans la tête).
I had grieved, went through our history, your textile, colours, how warm you were (pashmina), but we had a good life together, you kept me warm for many years, somebody else would be happy with you, in other words, I had accepted it could not last forever, then you were there, in the lost and found box.
J’en avais fait le deuil, refait l’histoire, le textile, les couleurs, la chaleur (pashmina), mais nous avons eu une bonne vie ensemble, il m’a gardé au chaud plusieurs années, il rendra quelqu’un d’autre heureux, bref j’avais accepté sa disparition, puis je l’ai retrouvé aux objets trouvés.
Mixed with yellow and black, the wrinkles of the white sand stretch out in the desert of the low tide, veiled with your long wings. You are probably looking for mussels, a crust of bread or forgotten French fries, but I like to imagine you’re philosophizing about your destiny.
* published a first time in April 2018, reviewed and modified in April 2019