The Pendent of Paradise

We were a group of tourists in Paradise. Modern, dressed in a contemporary way. Guided by two angels easily recognizable by their white wings folded on the back. And we, a dozen, two by two, framed by an angel in front, by an angel behind. We were easily recognizable because a green crown was placed on the head of each of us: myrtle. To allow us to leave again. To not be taken for the shadow of a dead person. And we walked, slowly, in a desert vegetation, where the deceased looked like white or gray clouds, more or less transparent. Our telpher was counted: one hour hardly. Prohibition to speak to anyone. It is there, however, that I bent down to pick up a pebble. A little stone of Paradise. And this stone, discreetly pink, transparent, so rare and so precious, I wear it around my neck, now and forever.

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