A poem by Eugenio de Andrade, from White on White, as translated by A. Levitin.
XXX
It burns you, the memory of the night before
we spoke, burns you, the salt
of the mouth which bit
before it kissed.
You don’t have room to die
with the morning, you only have a hole
in which to hide your tears,
a dry branch for chasing off the flies.
The soul’s task is to unlearn.
Animals are the great marvel,
no memory of having been brother
to the morning star.
Perhaps already quenched or crumbling to dark.
A photo and the final scene from La Boum (1980), a French film directed by Claude Pinoteau.
A few variations on how ad-target algorithms read this photo from La Boum.
