The world is round, the sun is blond. The sun sets early, in autumn’s hush, and no one is surprised that it deserts us. I think again of the equestrian statue of King Gradlon, at the summit of Saint-Corentin Cathedral in Quimper, between the twin spires, lofty, scanning the horizon, his head turned toward the city of Ys, overrun by the Atlantic Ocean, vanished beneath a tidal wave. An Atlantean myth that awakens the memory of my beloved, on the cathedral square. Tonight in Sainte-Rose, in the gentleness of the softly lit lamps of the living room. Above our heads, above the quilted cotton of light pollution, the milky night under the starry sky.
