Camille ,your hand working on the flesh of living stone
the workbench drawing curves and meanders
of your genius full of sensual spasms ...
Camille,you were robbed, abused , stolen,
the master carving your substance ,
making a volcan,his thing of power ...
Camille you killed your soul in an orgasm of violence
that brings the human mire to life ...
In your nake womb the clay passion fading away .
Camille ,your silent shadow howls in a lime room
where no mirror recognizes you ...
The solitude of the madman is cold as a marble of rain
whose memory no one flowers ..
If I had known you,pretty Camille ,I would have offered you
a bunch of words that you would shaped into sand castles...
Camille, in the new found gentleness of this spring
of fleeting loves let\'s go to the \'\'Café de Flore\'\'
laughing at the philosophers in front of a cup of coffee
and talking about recovered memory ...
(Camille Claudel in memoriam)