Marseille Concrete

Rotted crates, dead ant hills.
Acid, dust, lifts.
Which floor?
Building B
Or I don't know - it's all the same.
Repetition, mathematics - modernity.

Concrete, dust, heat
Jackhammer and rubble
Edging of the machines
Can you breathe?
You look like a construction site
Too white, you burn in the sun.
And in your streets, even the wind smells of stone.
And burning dust.

And so every day the sun collapses into the water and delivers its fierce pink and gold veil over our dazed pupils.
And our bodies, dazed by these inevitable days, slowly converge towards the coast.
It is easy for some, less so for others.

We have to climb for the poets, get off for the swimmers and learn to stop for those in a hurry. And toil for the others.
To taste this nectar, as flamboyant for some as for others, and to drink this coulis of light that covers the sea.

I think back to Thoreau's words: "For I was rich, if not in money, at least in sunny hours and summer days and spent them without counting the cost. »

Marseille, or misery in the sun.