Poussières
The city is leaving, slowly casting off, on the edge of time... It is leaving lightly... Not so far away, elsewhere, where time passes, has passed, will pass, on the horizon of time... The image glides on its path, a paper cargo ship, daughter of oblivion, free of history. It passes like a cloud, a dead leaf... A few stones remain, marked by vague eternity. A voice passes, from time to time, from distant memory... An ancient traveller? A distracted vagabond? It stands far away, in the rolling of time, silent.
