Le Thor

In the path with benumbed grass where we were astounded, as children, that nighttime ventured to pass, wasps no more went to bramblebushes and birds to branches. The air opened to the guests of morning its turbulent immensity. It was merely filaments of wings, temptation of shouting, acrobatics between light and transparency. Le Thor grew exalted in the lyre of its stones. Mont Venoux, mirror of eagles, was in sight. In the path with benumbed grass, the chimera of a lost age smiled at our youthful tears.

René Char