By the edge of the sea,
where the waves arrive already tired,
live the Withered Langoustine
and the Sorrowful Clam.
She is sad
because he is withered.
And he is withered
because she is sad.
And so it goes.
Sometimes she says:
—Oh, my dear Langoustine…
And he sighs very softly.
—Don’t worry, Clam…
But the Clam grows even sadder.
And the Langoustine, seeing her so sad,
withers just a little more.
The seagulls,
out of respect,
avoid making comments.
The octopuses look the other way.
And the fish,
out of good manners,
pretend they haven’t seen a thing.
And so the days go by.
By the edge of the sea.
She, a little sad.
He, a little withered.
Chronicler’s Note
Those involved have requested privacy.
As for the remaining details…
it’s probably best not to discuss them.
