The Atlantic gale that now abrades the Côte Sauvage
stirs the savage skin as it has done since men dared raise
these broken menhirs to the god that pounds the broken cliffs
with wind and wave and the loud cry of the gulls.
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This is almost reminiscent of something Heaney would write. Wonderful music in the words; they roll around my mouth like little grapes. Une tres belle poeme, monsieur! Cheers, Lori
Obscure but beautiful. Who is this poet who moves plants stones and beings like an Orpheus?