Inserted in each year were widowed days
Slow bloody Fridays filled with funerals
Of whites and blacks conquered by skies that rained
Whenever the devil’s wife had beaten her man
Intercalées dans l’an c’étaient les journées veuves
Les vendredis sanglants et lents d’enterrements
De blancs et de tout noirs vaincus des cieux qui pleuvent
Quand la femme du diable a battu son amant
Thus their walk came to an end. The result for all of them was wet feet, an irritated brain – as though the thin, bare branches on the trees, sparkling in the winter sun had turned to splinters stuck in the retina – a vulgar craving for hot coffee, and the feeling of human forlornness.
I know I walked out without looking back and that I walked for a long time until I realized I wasn’t crying, but that it was raining and I was soaked. That night I didn’t sleep at all.