She is buried deep in grave thoughts,
her mind aflare with consciousness —
there are no more ifs, no more oughts,
at long last came clear-sightedness.
Like the tearing of a dark veil,
a haunting doubt finally interred —
glaring at her as chalk on shale
is the unshrouded truth made word.
She is enwreathed with bated breath
in a moment frozen in time —
restless, her vision’s boundless breadth
pierces through ghosts, grief and grime.
Out of the ashes she found peace,
in the cold furnace of her heart —
that which obtained in quietus:
the deathling secret at depart.
On my way to work, on one of the old stairways going down to the Loire (the one nearer the St Symphorien bridge), I came across this bab...