The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.
A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
The poem is itself a mirror.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.
We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.