By: Michel Houellebecq
There is always a city, traces of poets Whose destinies crossed within its walls Water flows almost everywhere, my memory murmurs Names of cities, names of people, holes in my head And it is always the same story that starts again, Collapsed horizons and massage parlours Assumed solitude, respect for one's neighbours, Yet there are people who exist and who dance. They are people of another species, another race, Alive we dance a cruel dance We have few friends but we have the sky, And the infinite solicitude of spaces; Time, aged time preparing its revenge, The uncertain rustling of passing life Whistling of the wind, drops of water dripping And the yellowed bedroom where our death advances.