And I contemplate,
With a blank look, my back bent, knees bent,
The extent of the damage.
Unprecedented damage.
The boat is nothing more than a pile of lying wood.
Debris intermingling.
And I feel my hands hurt.
The flesh is raw, completely burned.
Waving shreds like hoisted flags.
These hands will be the memory, the stele of this chaos
Which, every second I lay my eyes on them,
Will tell me, with this smell of blood and iodine:
“The sinking of your soul came
When you caressed the cannonballs
Which pierced the hull of your ship. »

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