Unfinished

Paris, May 2018.

For most of them, it is the last trace, the one that remains as long as the ink, the pigment or the gold resist to the attacks of rain, ultra-violet and pollution. And in this cemetery, not far away, one finds secular stones made anonymous by the ravages of time or, in a more singular way, the growth of a tree breaking even the hardest stone.
But there, under the name of the great man for whom wikipedia recounts the life in three languages, barely readable, that of a woman sketched by series of horizontal then vertical lines, before the letters are drawn at the pen.
When she was buried at the beginning of the autumn, her name was then only on the lips of those dropping white roses. When spring comes, it still seems there only temporarily, as if the returning sun could erase it. In the written world, death sometimes takes its time.

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator