A lost summer's kissSeptember 1792"Cornélie, would you like to go for a walk?" I smile at her, avoiding to look into her eyes: I know we would have blushed."If you like, Maximilien." she answers, bringing down her gaze. I perceive that she is ready to get up from the picnic rug, and yet she remains motionless."You should abandon the formality, Cornélie." perhaps I should not have corrected her, but her politeness makes it more difficult for me to approach her. Cornelia, no nickname could be more appropriate for her: she is marble-like and gorgeous as a Roman statue."Maurice, you wouldn't mind if we went for a walk, I hope." There is no real rea
La finJe suis une plumenoire et encrecoulet dans mes veines.Qui lira mes mains,Fragments dans mes poches?ma tête sera le drapeaude mon myth accompli.Je vivrai en mourantmes yeux seront mille,scintillantes et deformes,mais, moi, je ne pourrai plus rien.Ma douleur ne commence paspar la lame,mais par ces adieus muetsqui me déchirent.