The whistle of the train sings the harmony between nature and lovers… Followed by a terrible braille of scrap metal.
Why does this dissonant noise with the moment, with the landscape, awaken a sentence read recently … « the projectile strikes in the trench, it looks like the claw of a roaring tiger ».
The train is already far away but the trouble persists, becomes incrusted. The deep blue of the sea, which had just been a source of serenity and harmony, seems to display the hypocritical calmness of a shroud for those who flee from poverty and are everywhere rejected.
How can the harmonious power of nature cover with its indifference the killers who hide themselves, the unfortunates who flee from misery, the lovers who shut themselves up in its bubble of silence and sweetness …
How can it be the absolute serenity of a summer afternoon and the angry burial of thousands of fishermen?
How can the same sea, so blue, so calm, here be the image of the pleasure of women, of men, of children, of the happiness of lovers and a little further on the mortuary cloth of thousands of people in the complicity of men and elements.