The years pile on us like a stack of cards from losing hands at a casino. Strangers ignore my passing and friends failed to recognize me. Ancient as dust I regard my body in elongated shadows at dawn and dusk. A ruin like the Acropolis. Once great, but now shattered, but then I recall the last line from Edward Rosemund's CYRANO DE BERGERAC.
“You strip from me the laurel and the rose!
Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing
I hold against you all, and when, tonight,
I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed,
Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue,
One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch,
I bear away despite you…
My panache.”
Quelle grand pif
Foto by Raoul Ollman
