Fort Brigantine,
the end of the world
A piece of island
a junction of paths.
Some them separated,
before going there.
Others met terrors
hidden in the bend of the trail,
in the shadows, stones,
and to give strength,
put large stones in their pockets.
A man lives alone here,
a strong tenant
whose residents were last
fighters of the last war.
Amazing hospitality
this man away,
who was able to organize here
enough to face the wind, lack of water.
Solitude we breathe every breath,
loneliness with hints of seagulls,
loneliness at the turn of the cracks,
solitude colors
of city lights in the distance Marseille
like a Christmas wreath.
Solitude and silence of the night
of a nature that remains wild
and our young friends could not cope,
as it was foreign to them.
Our young friends,
we have shared with you all
than halfway there,
enough to give us a taste
to invent other ways back with you,
other meetings.
What have we learned from each other and,
these hours of crossing, meeting, and bifurcations?
Something has bound us for a time in any follow-up.
Marie-Hélène November 5, 2006
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