In the insensible cold of summer, in July,
she had ventured into the gloomy tempered regions,
terribly deprived or sun
She wanted to feel the hot rays
burning on her Asian skin
and snatch the sadness from her face,
her body, her hair,
all the way to her teeth.
Each part of herself was struck by mortal
silence,
like the end of a hopeless expectation.
She wandered through ancient villages
lined with age-old houses.
As usual a dull life,
a human life without horizon, paralized with
pain,
the pain of the senses,
the pain of love,
the pain of disgust for everything,
or resentment at the end of things.
She does not know where to go, to the right of the left
road,
to find her way back home.
The sun can not grab it from the deep sadness,
from the weight of her melancholy.
The solitude of an orphan.
She felt lonely
as it always had been since her
arrival
She finally stopped.
Nobody there
was waiting for her.
Nobody there
paid any attention to her writing.
Nobody there,
nobody here either.
In July she slowly wasted away
like the last flowers of