There is nothing left

There is nothing left of it. Everything. Nothing left, more than the smell. The smell of death, of fire on the earth, and of hot concrete.
Wherever my eyes set, they see only black, grey, dull and ashes that the wind lifts. As far as the sea, the land seems dead, interrupted at times by the traces that one guesses to be those of men who have struggled. Like islands of life, a few roads, a few tracks, often close to houses or electrical installations, these still fawn, dry but not dead patches of earth, or a few fragile tufts, stand in front of death as if to remind the passer-by of the battle that was fought here. And also to say that we were here before. We the trees, the birds, the snails, whose burnt shells cracked everywhere under my feet. We the lizards and field mice, the flowers, plants and insects. Before, of course, it didn't smell like death, but thyme, the earth that dries after the rain, the resin of the pine trees that heats up in the sun and also the nearby sea. Before we made your tracks disappear, now they are there, in broad daylight, your empty bottles and your carcasses, your metal sheets and scrap metal, we can no longer hide them. We can no longer hide them. Not even fire has been able to make them disappear.
All along the road, it smells like death. But yet summer is here, and the car parks are filling up around the burnt campsite. We have to bathe our bodies, we have to plant our parasols and make our children laugh. So much the worse for death, the water is good and there are places to park.