They had affianced him beforehand to a healing wound.
They had predestined him for consolation by an infliction.
The pincers of the executioner had softly changed
into the delicately molded hand of a girl.
Gwen Plain was horrible, artificially horrible,
made horrible by the hand of a man.
They had hoped to exile him forever,
first from his family.
If his family existed,
and then from humanity.
When an infant,
they had made him a ruin.
Of this ruin,
nature had repossessed herself
as she does of all ruins.
This solitude nature had consoled.
As she consoled,
she consoled all solitudes.
Nature comes to the succor of the deserted.
Where all is lacking,
she gives back her whole self.
She flourishes and grows green amid ruins.
She has ivy for the stones,
and love for the dead.
And love for man.
Profound generosity of the shadows.
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