I am made more of silence than flashes. I have told so little about winter, not at all about the spring that is coming to an end. My days were no less noisy, enriching, anxious, cloudy and blessed. The ordinary life of a man who feels the fatigue of near-finished duties.
I am not the same man as I was thirty years ago, not the same water, very little the same riverbed. My body will have absorbed, fused and then rejected billions of atoms. My thoughts will have loved, swallowed, forgotten whole fillets of winged, carnivorous fish. I will always be that tree that patiently steals the light to live better and take drugs.
A man’s story is more like an interrogation than a Bible, more like dust than a prophet’s illumination. And I want to push the electron ink even further, the appalled and blissful silence in front of existence.
Summer is coming, the sun is finally on our heads, the beauty of these spring greens, and despite the floods, the Chechens and the deceptions, isn’t it better to live your happiness than to struggle under the misunderstanding? Massacres and deliverances are part of this universe. I will never know what purpose I intend to devote myself to opening my voice in this way. I am like the others the product of the seasons. It is with calm, sadness and respect that I submit to the cycle.
Thus the poets remain silent to better celebrate the chlorophyll of the intoxicating dimensions of the great Time and Space.