My summer ends with you, and the rest of these dateless dates draw to a close inside you. In foetal position, and like those who met death by water, I sink in the wisdom of your eyes: Would I could return to that human womb, sleep within your innermost lips hide in the everlastingness of your sex, bathe by remorses in your aseptic juices. Just a few more days only, princess from the high city named after a Nordic queen, and you will have realized that you, too, arrived late. Us it is, who die, and yet we feel as though it were someone else‘s suffering. You tried to imprison me in the dampness of your adolescent vulva, yet I‘m am going away forever, partaking in endless flight. To a standstill you have brought all my excretions in your womb, that you have achieved, reminding me that Paris is not that far away, that stars are held in your fists to lead me astray that this very sun, a few days before only, still warmed my uncertain nights to grow old in the witheredness I shall get ahead of you. In your hands I looked for the fleeting glow of the star that had just burned out in those summer days. It was the brightest star, and left behind a wake that cut asunder the darkness of your groin, which was never mine and bore the colour of enigma. There, at the bar where we used to meet every night, you are to tarry after I have closed the door behind me, without even my looking back. For there you are to endure your solitude, and -in a set of fixed mirrors-behold my pupils as they wander off into the nothingness. Then you will have realized that dreams evanesce at the break of dawn. Above the iron relics of the tower of Paris, the remains of this civilization will lie about: burned books will have turned into icebergs where survivors will seek refuge from cold gusts of flying cinders. Don’t forget that the key to the three coffers I myself threw into the sea. Some day oceanographers will find it. A minor vestige of mighty mythical shipwrecks.