A perte de vue

A pair of sails upsets the azure line

The clouds run down into the waves

Nothing is young about the deep white sea

Where thoughts of Moors, and Franks, and Normans bear on me.

A grain of sand speaks more than any book

About the breath of conquerors and dreams

Who came, then stayed, then left again,

And left their footprint in the shifting sand.

But who are we, if not the other grain

Which joins the pebbles on the empty beach

And think through tanning and sunbathing to

Relieve the pain of drinking of the Lethe.

(Menton, 2015)

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