The eye of the day

This morning, the sun rose on the cellar of my secrecies. It entered gently, so slowly that I felt it to penetrate, preparing me with its intrusion, its questions. I hid in the darkest recesses of my insulation, the reducing one, not wanting to face this world of light which attacks me. In the cellar, under the stone vault, the calm, silence are my more faithful companions. It made fresh there whereas outside the dry grass, the flowers miss water, the sheets curl up. I see this sun going up white, aggressive, extreme. It will enter by the small window. That which is too high, that I, that I cannot reach cannot close. It is the eye of the day. This intrusive, inquisitive eye. The sun entered, I knew it. It lit the first stones of the window, then extended on those from the vault. I felt his heat. With it, the visitors of the day entered, discovering the underground crypt of the church where I am in hiding since so a long time. Always same remarks, same anxious glances. I have the habit. They are in search of phantom, of a phantom. They seek me, never see me. The days of summer, when the eye of the day violates my intimacy, I funds on the walls, run on the ground, slip between the stone slabs. I remain invisible.