Lebda’s world is saturated with physical reality: the buzzing of bees, the consciousness of a body and its aches, the erosion of flesh and tissue, the presence of dogs, the sounds of nature, the light of days, and the silence of nights. These words are palpable; after all, they emerge from what the poet calls the “snout of a poem.”
Mer de Glace is a thin, white book—a fragment of a melting world that you cannot help but want to touch. Its texture is like metallic, icy silk, and the cover is crafted to be stroked and felt. Yet, there is a haunting realisation: if you indulge too deeply in this tangible sensuality, the beauty might disintegrate, melting away just as glaciers and human bodies inevitably do.