A Quiet Sunday in Biarritz
I wake up under heavy white clouds.
The ocean yawns, growls, hypnotizes.
Seagulls scream: wake up.
I open the shutters.
Cold air enters the room.
Morning stands at the window.
Far away, the mountains keep watch.
Below, surfers run into the water.
I watch them from my window, half smiling,
coconut water in my hand.
Outside, rain falls slowly.
The storm unties the knots.
Inside, the future takes shape
to the rhythm of the drops.
A happy D minor.
Curtains move in the wind.
Salt air crosses the room.
I stand there, barefoot,
listening to the storm.
I sing without fear.
Afternoon stretches slowly.
Coffee gets cold on the table.
Wet streets begin to dry.
I don’t move much.
The day moves around me.
People talk on terraces.
Glasses shine in the sun.
Laughter becomes slower.
Eyes meet and stay.
Bodies move closer.
Quiet love begins outside.
By the window, I tie my hair.
Warm air rises from below.
Darkness falls softly.
Footsteps grow quiet.
Then the voice goes silent.
Hot shower, slow evening.
Pages filled with salt air.
I close the curtains with wet hands.
I fall asleep, the soul in prose.
The night knows me.
I am here.
The world can turn without me.
Tomorrow will come quietly.
And that is enough.
Somewhere, seagulls are already awake.
I wake up under heavy white clouds.
A Quiet Sunday in Biarritz, Virginie Lentulus.
Pictures by Sebastien Zanella.
