“…I did not at all imagine that the author from whom I borrowed this story was almost forcing me to follow in his footsteps, so much gentleness and simplicity there is in continuing this tale, and so true it seemed to me…”
When night fell, Félix, his mind tired and still absorbed by the stories of Lucian and Igniatius, alias Don Carotte and his donkey, abandoned himself to his small passions. A Sunday poet, in complete freedom, with no other restraint than the limits of his imagination, he let himself drift into writing, convinced that this letting-go might lead him where other colleagues refuse to go. With no more obstacles, images poured in without interruption, and Félix, without knowing how, set them down on the pages of his notebooks. Soon, writing and drawing became one…
I saw, in a desert of drifting islands,
Three beings without identity, three souls that survive.
Three beings without identity, three souls that survive.
Here, everything is extinguished. The circus holds no hate.
The canvases, heavy with shadows, sink into the ring.
No more cries. No more steps. The wind alone, step by step,
Crosses through the night the high wooden tiers.
The ring, once queen, is now a bed of ash;
Hanging ropes tremble like branches.
This place was once a theatre, it is now no more than a sigh.
Yet ruins sometimes begin to glow again.
For the vast darkness, standing in for the world,
Unveils the light in its deep obscurities,
And in this total blackness, the quivering past
Rises like a star in the heart of the firmament.
No more cries. No more steps. The wind alone, step by step,
Crosses through the night the high wooden tiers.
The ring, once queen, is now a bed of ash;
Hanging ropes tremble like branches.
This place was once a theatre, it is now no more than a sigh.
Yet ruins sometimes begin to glow again.
For the vast darkness, standing in for the world,
Unveils the light in its deep obscurities,
And in this total blackness, the quivering past
Rises like a star in the heart of the firmament.
It is here that, once, the Walker engendered
His wandering steps, his breath and his unclarified fears.
Here that the Golden Ear, in an empty box,
Heard the timid spectres whisper.
Here that the Shadow-Maker, sheltered by the curtains,
Invented a thousand lives, a thousand faces, a thousand echoes.
Here that three destinies, under the fire of the stars,
Tried to understand each other through a thousand veils.
The circus now deserted still offers itself
As a living tomb that keeps and devours.
But the soul of this place, beneath the fiery dust,
Pulses like a great heart forgotten by the gods.
His wandering steps, his breath and his unclarified fears.
Here that the Golden Ear, in an empty box,
Heard the timid spectres whisper.
Here that the Shadow-Maker, sheltered by the curtains,
Invented a thousand lives, a thousand faces, a thousand echoes.
Here that three destinies, under the fire of the stars,
Tried to understand each other through a thousand veils.
The circus now deserted still offers itself
As a living tomb that keeps and devours.
But the soul of this place, beneath the fiery dust,
Pulses like a great heart forgotten by the gods.
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