In the heart of the night, among the shadows of ancient trees,
The wind sings a tune of distant nostalgia,
Recalling the Lotus and its lost Orient,
The mystery descending from the sky in gentle notes.
“La Mare nostrum” — so wrote Loti —
“Is the Orient I carry in my chest,
The sea that cradles my silent homeland,
And where my heart lies in a secret.”
India, land of sacred words and ancient flames,
Where the sun quenches its thirst on myths and prayers,
Is an enigma defying all reason and name,
A dream that flees beyond all borders.
Pierre Loti, in his eternal pilgrimage,
Encountered splendor and sorrowful beauty,
But his gaze remained forever foreign,
In the golden light, between tears and caress.
He wrote of India, but never understood her,
Remained a traveler in the shadow of the Ganges,
Where every step led him further from meaning,
Lost in the call of a fading mystery.
And today, still, that mystery calls to us,
And we follow its voice in the sands of time,
Like Loti, seeking what remains unrevealed,
Among Eastern reflections and the silence of the wind.
“La Mare nostrum” — a phrase that endures,
An invitation to voyage, to the thirst for the infinite,
To follow the Lotus at the heart of his path,
Where perhaps lies the face of the lost man.