Before him — nothing.
What compass rose?
This country wasn't here.
Now, a new cartography:
apple trees, a population
of bluebirds, purple irises.
How I love this island
with its silver birches, its river.
There is not one venomous spider,
not one thorny path,
no brawling wedding guest,
no gladiator, no guillotine.
Fine. Fine. But it needs something,
it needs something . . .
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