Hymns to the night
When the night has taken over our memories, we will only have our hands left to search it, and an obscure taste on the lips of those who have tasted it.
When we have lost our memory – at a time when the doors are closed, the moon pale, the wheat tilting in the evening – we will only have to roam the countryside in search of the vestiges of our childhood.
When the night has cast its shadow over our history, we will walk its paths, turn over its land, and will undoubtedly find, buried in the nocturnal silence, the germinated seeds of our past.
Then will reach us, perhaps, this forgotten air, words of our ancestors, the memory of which haunts our wild lands – these fugitive souls, these evanescent silhouettes, which often arise in the evening to vanish at dawn, carrying with them a final goodbye.
text by author Fanny Charrasse on the series