When the Breton of the coast prepares to die, its impatient soul, weary of its body, burns to become an anaon and set sail offshore. It is there that the Paradise of the Couchant is without latitude nor longitude that the Celts found in themselves without sextant or compass.
The Irish call it Tir na n'Og and the Bretons Bro ar Re Yaouank, which means Terre des Jeunes, because time is not counted there.
An island, a floating land, which only knows the same wave once, remains only for a moment directly above each star. It is much further than we can tell, and yet it only takes one tide to reach it.
You cannot die when the sea is full. The last breath is exhaled at slack sea and the ebb takes the soul on board in the heavy foam of its wave in return.
But you need the high wind, the upwind, to carry in a kornog. If the wind keeps the soul in the wake of the sun, it sails on the fortunate island, at the signal of a great fire which arcs night and day the highest eminence.
On the shore awaits a procession of elected officials in a supernatural light where all impurity dissipates and merges. All the trees are green, all foods are resolved in apples, all beverages in mead from living springs. It is an endless forgiveness, under the shade, and the most beautiful hymns of fairies with blond braids rock the blessed in their transparent dwellings.
This is what we said to Molène ......