We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
We read, we travel, we become.
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.