At the edge of the forest, the dreamy Celandines tinkle, dazzle and sparkle, - the orange-lipped maiden, knees crossed in the bright flood which gushes from the meadows, shadowed nakedness, cast over and dressed up by rainbows, flowers and sea.

Ladies who twirl along the seaside promenade; wee lassies and big wifies, cut fine black clouds in the gray-green moss, jewels studding the rich soil of groves and rockeries – young mothers and big sisters eyeballed up with pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of gait and costume, foreign girls and melancholic ladies.

How boring, the hour of “dear boady” and “dear hairt”.

It is she, the dead girl, behind the rose bushes – the young passed-away mother descends the grit path. The cousin's carriage creaks on the gravel. The little brother (he's in India!) there, in front of the sunset, in a field of marigolds. The old ones, buried upright in the ramparts, slapped over with stocks.

The swarm of golden leaves swirl round the general's home. They're in the south – One follows the red road to get to the empty inn. The castle is up for sale; the shutters coming off their hinges – the curate must have taken away the church key. Around the estate, the gatehouses are uninhabited. The hedging so high that one sees nothing but the bristling top branches. Anyway, there is nothing to see within.

The meadows climb towards the hamlets, without cock-crows, without anvil knocks. The floodgate opened. Oh, the Calvaries and the deserted mills, the isles and the millstones.

The magical flowers were humming, the scree rocking him. The beasts of fabulous elegance circled round. The stormclouds gathered over the high sea, formed from an eternity of heated-up tears.