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Singing the light

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

The day, cov­ered with its morn­ing grey­ness, appeared with more beau­ti­ful col­ors, ear­ly. The sky turned blue like spring. In the evening, the rehearsals of Ganymede were resumed, with Claude Debussy’s Beau Soir and Paul Pierné’s Les Pins, sweet melodies, marked by these del­i­cate­ly encod­ed vapors, which in no way fore­shad­owed the hor­rors of the wars to come. The texts of this peri­od have that old-fash­ioned and yet res­olute­ly burst­ing air where when at sun­set the rivers are pink and one advis­es being hap­py seems to come out of things, or Glo­ry to the Gold­en Moon with its ves­per­al splen­dours and when the ver­mil­ion dawn, from the top of the glac­i­ers, sud­den­ly illu­mi­nates the reg­u­lar logs.

Some cho­ris­ters laughed at the pompous sen­tences, some oth­ers, Eng­lish-speak­ing, scratched their heads to try to under­stand the mean­ing of the words “diaprent”, “frondaisons” (Que­be­cers also mas­saged their hair).

Nev­er­the­less, this poet­ry, which tried the impos­si­ble to dis­cov­er new lands, has van­ished into thin air. Today, we must sail even high­er, between quan­tum knowl­edge, or low­er, among reli­gious fun­da­men­talisms, as if poet­ry must now be read and invent­ed in silence, else­where, in minds attacked by ver­ti­go mathematics.

This world in which I live is amaz­ing ; its lights will undoubt­ed­ly be rec­og­nized soon­er or lat­er, but you have to admit that it is hard to con­vince by dream­ing. Our voic­es no longer sing of vis­i­ble light. We mar­vel in 3D at the risk of for­get­ting this advice to taste the charm of being in the world, while we are young and the evening is beau­ti­ful, because we leave, as this wave goes away. She at sea, we at the tomb (Beau soir, Debussy).

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