LA MINUIT DU MONDE: LES XII ANS DE NURNBERG

O silver-faced one, sung by Sappho and her children scattered like starry pearls across all aeons! Your unfeeling touch can intoxicate the sober, bewilder the wise, and break the hero. Beneath your right palm lie the lifeless ruins of the past, tended by moss. To your left — a wildly blooming, incandescent ether. And before you — the most fragile moment of contemplation, when I myself merge with beauty, clothed in the ashen gifts of the moon.