Debussy left with his boat, rowing in the mist
and Sonia gave him a scarf to protect his throat.
The clouded mountains announced thunders and peasants
counted their grains of rice.
An ominous sign of change overcame the networks
while a blue lady danced a camelia music.
Omen!Is there no more time to prepare?
There is only space to get involved, no more
time to cook.
Recipe books have faded under the rain,
some drops staying on the tongue
of those who left it out, humbly eager.
One day , the winds said, you will follow us,
like the birds and the leaves and the moods.
Where your will will go is where the streams
conjoin, without bitterness.
Tomorrow nowhere will know you.
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