Entraînés par la foule qui s'élance
Et qui danse
Une folle farandole
Nos deux mains restent soudées
He is speaking to someone again, but who is this? He speaks as she sings. We hear the both of them as though they are talking about the same thing in different tongues. In the Garden of Gethsemane, he says, there was a man who was kissed. Do you know him? Giotto painted this scene with clubs and fire. I was not clubbed, but set on fire. When I woke up that morning after a troubled sleep, I found her crouched at the end of the room like a wounded animal. She was in distress and confusion. I wanted to console her, but she kissed me like Judas and my flesh burnt where her lips had lingered. The spirit is willing enough that good man said, but the flesh is weak. Hers was the weakest.
Emportés par la foule qui nous traîne
Nous éloigne l'un de l'autre
Je lutte et je me débats
Mais le son de ma voix
S'étouffe dans les rires des autres
Et je crie de douleur, de fureur et de rage
Et je pleure...
There was a part of me that was saddened by the sight of her pain, and another, satisfied by it. Betrayal is a state of paradox. It does not turn love into hate; it does not in a hot flash or in a slow gradient, turn from white to black. Hate is spawned from love, and like an illegitimate child ashamed of its own birth, battles with its parent. It splits the being into two, carrying both black and white, joy and grief, both warring upon each other until one is victorious and the other is dead.
Et je crispe mes poings, maudissant la foule qui me voleBut for those few unfortunate souls whose hate runs as deep as their love, there is neither defeat nor victory, neither the calm and shame of surrender or the din and celebration of triumph but like the winds of a tornado formed of two opposing forces, only destruction.
L'homme qu'elle m'avait donné
Et que je n'ai jamais retrouvé...
He stops speaking. I hear the faint static of the recording and I hear him breathing. The tape ends.