The little Sète girl

She sees her shriveled fingers again and
Cracks on his hardened hands

She still hears the sound of the waves at night
Which undulate in a roll on the keel
She sees the trawler moving away and disappearing again.
on the sleeping sea
She sees her face again, her blackened skin
Exposed, sacrificed, day and night
And his worn jacket, folded at the foot of his bed
She puts her hand on her heart

 and sees his father, the fisherman, again

Memories she can't forget

On the slightly rusty docks

Hanging from the hollows of the stirrups

She was waiting for his return close

Boats in old-fashioned colors

She remembers the stories told

brought back from the abyss and odysseys


She dreams
She dreams of this bright sky
From the morning chaos, from the cries of fishermen and market gardeners
Shutters that slam on the walls of the colorful houses,

The scent of grilled sardines at lunchtime
Olives and anchovies on the crumpled tablecloth
Bright and regretted country
The South, which she dreams of finding again

Poca