• 

 Wordless defeat
 under the flight of a specter
 emptying itself of its attributes .

 One night exile
 devoured by the web of dreams
 without the secret corrupting the memory .  
       
 Oblivion between the mist and the moon
 you won't die you can't die
 all day glories extinguished
 from the bowels of the valley
 from which rises the double sound of oboe and sax .

 Prolonged bewitchment
 at the limits of a crossing
 before sinking into darkness
 where slowly are consumed
 flesh and nails of tenderness's Sunday best
 fallen in dew of blood
 before dawn strays . 
      
 Pitfall arranged between the lanterns
 in the middle of these wrecks
 than a mysterious order
 land in this kingdom
 where cold flint separates flesh from skin .

 Life is here
 life is the place
 mine life in companion of your life
 size XXL of the plotted median
 between the blue child's smile
 and the perpetuity of a blond desert .


 146 

• 

 In Doubt and Hope .
 If there is a link between the artist and the rest of humanity
 it can't be that nothing living can be created
 without the obscure consciousness of this link there
 bond of love and revolt  .

 The sequel can only come after the end of the film
 a suite filtered by the cheerfulness of the light of the world
 a suite to climb the stairs four by four
 in friendship the thickening air
 as time mingles with time
 as this day passed that will not return
 as the sharp horns of a gripping cold the edge of the forests .

 They will come or they won't come
 then they will leave
 their lives focused on their daily occupations .

 To stretch the neck
 towards the proximity of a finitude all to oneself
 rises the aroma of the sacrifices made to the gods
 close to a human attitude that is worth - the laugh .

 rushes in
 through the door of disappointments
 concentration camps murders and rapes
 the ineffable ordeal in which must be settled
 the question of the meaning of his life
 heart pounding
 in front of the red book of counterfeits
 where to sneak away
 where to spit his clots of dark words
 on the marble body of the father gone from the first line 
 where the effort to engage
 would qualify as primary attention
 the divine breath to promote .

 Gets up
 above the tenderness of dawn
 with the accents of singing blackbirds
 the caduceus of intelligence and culture
 rhythmic union with sweet scents of jasmine
 outside the bituminous solitude
 off the black ink verbatim
 outside the pictorial palace of the granting judges
 outside the warping of the pranks of stupidity
 except this strange birth between dog and wolf
 where to read true
 is the final moment of decision
 to gather in his soul
 the prospect of a new impetus
 so that the energy adheres to the spirit
 springboard
 where to bounce even higher
 in simple life  .


 148 

 You so transparent
 fricassée de grillons dans la prairie
 At nightfall
 look open to the awakening of a starry sky
 out of reach
 at the source of the whispers  .
 
 You came from the depths of the earth
 of a thousand petals made up
 in front of the hectic arrival of the starlings
 to repeat
 que la marée monte
 the calls go away
 smothered in the hold
 hoping for the last drop of rain
 on the wing of night
 of foliage adorned
 on the walls of nostalgia
 to watch for the furtive passage
 between the feminine and the masculine
 and be reborn within you .


 147 

 With blue everywhere without blue in the soul
 with breathless wind but without really losing it
 with a tenderness of the air without a carnivorous fly
 with a tropical tree that does not sting
 with the sea but not too cold and without sharks
 with boats you could ride on
 with fuss vendors that look good and don't spit sand on your tan
 with children who don't shout
 with a sun that is not too hot
 with a fries stand not too far away
 with a polard to read that is not too creepy
 with a sufficiently large bath towel
 with sunglasses without fingerprints
 with a parasol that doesn't fly away all the time
 with a smart phone with a not too aggressive ringtone
 with uncounted hours ahead of you
 with a sweet feeling of hunger reminiscent of the evening barbecue
 with the sound of the wavelets caressing the shore without unsightly scraping
 with a sky where planes wouldn't drag their illegible ads
 with a not too big belly that allows me to see the toes
 with a tanning cream that does not pull the hairs while drying
 with just the right amount of sweat showing that the fat melts away but without dripping
 with a calm relaxation with each breath hoping it won't be the last
 with a plunge into a half-sleep accompanied by butterflies flying in azure skies
 with the ability to grab a handful of sand without encountering a butt
 with the project of doing nothing despite this mind that gnaws at us
 with a pinch of infinity without thinking of what is to come .


 145 

• 

 God is a metaphor for all that transcends the planes intellectual thought.

Thought intellectual is a flower that does not abolish God.

God sometimes in its thurifers may seem the root plant of all things.

That thought intellectual who backwards initiates the inquisitive trace of the divine overflow is the ramp to the truth.

His pistil of love on the brink of congestion throws the arrow of knowledge out of the permissiveness of sin.

half wisdom buried in the premises of beauty is the antechamber of the great upheaval.

To ask the foraging insect could discover the pot of roses of freedom.

The fragrance crackling with a thousand sparks of love on the edge of the tongue of fire marks the coming from the one who says.

Poetry in its quest for wonder is the metaphor of the Mystery.

144

• 

 The raw blue sea of ​​the origins
 I threw myself
 I left the raft of conveniences
 and held my lady to my lap
 the water was tender and conducive to the advancement of the situation
 offshore slack with no land on the horizon
 immense with fine regular and shivering undulations
 where transparent
 I could make out pebbles from the bottom
 I swam aimlessly aimlessly
 infinite time .

 Appeared ribs 
 I approached
 the landscape was barren
 everything was white with ashes after the cataclysm
 shredded trees
 no leaves no greenery
 I walked along the coast
 a creek I docked
 a house on the edge of a pile of fossilized plants
 remnant of a forest of yesteryear
 gigantic cemetery raising its stumps towards a brazen sky
 a house with scaffolding all around
 human beings must have taken possession of the place after the terrible ordeal
 I was dropping off gente damsel
 and followed her home
 a two-storey stone building
 outside the door as we were about to knock
 opened like a gust of wind
 a breath that sucked us in
 a spring surrounded us
 a little woman dressed all in black
 with a soft cloth, the head covered
 bare feet in thick leather sandals
 bespectacled and wrinkled face appeared
 to drag us briskly into a dark interior
 the two women seemed to know each other
 I was only entitled to a furtive glance
 As if I did not exist
 but was I really visible ?
 through this crossing that I carried out without effort
 driven by a task
 was i not a spirit ?
 committed there before me simple witness
 a lively conversation
 full of joy of variations in the voice
 two bouquets of multicolored flowers chirping cheerful birds intertwined
 in the play of hands and luminous eyes
 a graceful song made of joy
 whose language I did not understand
 I was not one of them
 I was the ferryman who allowed them to meet
 so i disappeared
 strength of the work carried out .

 Since then
 the murmur is no longer the simple melodious accord of the elements of life encountered
 he is thick bower in life returned and children laugh
 on the ascent of the stony path
 that runs along the now familiar house .


 144 

• 

 Don't bend before sleep
 be the merry slayer of mysteries
 for
 the same scene passing and re-crossing
 know how to say
 that the event is a set of phrases
 and that in the old quarrel between the real and the dream
 the door is in the midst of the effusions
 Vague feeling
 partly emerged
 of a cloud of lies
 that the wind pushes towards the mountain
 for haunting sentences
 convert the spoken word
 in grayness of convenience .

 be the porcupine
 shrewd admonitions
 and if the step hurries you
 like the snail on its shiny path
 return to your barns
 the useless package of substitutes
 gird the cloth with light
 go to the party
 and discover your heart.


 142 

• 

     I advance
 of marble
 in the first line
 in this possibility to join us
 in our nuptials
 of real truth .

 I walk
 fingerprint memory
 from my throat
 sort l'ineffable
 at the young men's crematorium
 refusing exhaustion .

 And since life is "to see"
 I dissolve
 on the shore of grace
 in fraternal drowsiness
 cutting into thin colored strips
 the much sought-after face
 the face of childhood
 the face of every man in search of himself .

  And if everything was a matter of silence
 much more than music .


 141 

• 

 It's closed but be careful
 there is the insubordination of full light
 there is the straightness of a supple bow vigilance
 there is the threshold of the sludge of great washings 
 there is the ambition to walk in the footsteps of your name
 there is the intimate circumcision of the range of exchanges extended to the confines of the universe
 there lies the responsibility of an impeccable conscience
 there is the seam assembling with a scarlet thread the fabrics of flesh and of the word
 there is the passage that the step of the sheep tramples
 angry conversation on the customary path
 there is the leaf of a tree let loose in the wind from a distant land
 there is the night of pains and temptations hemmed in by the rising dawn .
 So goes the nave fulfilling its office
 mistress of exile and vanity
 welling up of tears at the bedside of finitude
 transmitter
 apart from sex fortune and power
 the message that neither wears out the heart nor dries up the blood
 the message of the warriors much more than that of the spouses
 the fiery message out of fatigue and regret
 the message unveiled by seeing and hearing it
 the message of the joy of final vows
 the message of grace and smile
 the message of the dew that fell on Saint John's morning
 the message of the fruits that we offer
 The message that never closes
 gratitude of the day .

 The man holds the keys to his fragile balance .
 Man is the creator of both his hell and his paradise .


 143 

You're not done to leave .

Sometimes when black clouds are gathering and that the rout plants its black flag, your brain scrambles, tu cries. A cry beyond pain and call. A cry to abyssal causes. A cry of a human being in the grip of an encounter unlikely. A cry that disturbs our usual understanding. An outrageous cry who wants to show us something. But what ? What did you see ? As for your emotions, I don't have the key to decode them .

You wander in these lands between dog and wolf, where the greyness of a frost-saturated winter grabs images from yesteryear, where the vapors of the backwater of the origins alter consciousness, was, where hallucinations and visions meet .

You are between life and death but life is the strongest, even in the last trip, and it's which allows us to feel the fragility of this life, his unique face and that strong from this ultimate experience we are of flesh, of mind and soul great mystery transcribers, we the innocent, we the followers of Wonder .

You scream and I hear you through the corridors of this retirement home that you didn't never could do yours, so much was your difficulty in communicating and adapting big .

They are no longer “Madame !” that you utter but long moans that rise from the depth of your being to address someone undefined, that you can't appoint. save you from danger ? Relieve you ? Help you get through this ordeal, this upheaval of being which sinks into the labyrinth made of traces memories and impasses ? You don't know what to ask, your emaciated hand squeezes my hand. You don't even ask me to come home anymore, at home .

your functions vitals have been reduced to eating and sleeping, and when I walk away your prolonged complaint grinds my chest like a vice and wrings my heart .

When I leave you after kissing you, I feel like this will be the last time ; and then I'm not going back because I don't know what to do to help you, to reassure you, to calm you down. Cowardly I abandon you, and then I makes you feel guilty !

Dès que je quitte l’étage où tu résides et que l’ascenseur atteint le Rez-de-chaussée, je n’entends plus tes cris mais néanmoins ils continuent de résonner au plus profond de mon être. I am abandoned. I'm left out, me the evil born … maybe like you. J’essaye de me faire à l’idée que je n’ai plus de papa, I'm sad, I am upset, a big ball rises from my belly. I calm down, I manage the situation while undergoing a visceral tearing. Your cries follow me when I meditate, when I walk in the rain, dans le vent, under the sun and I hear your voice calling me, gently, très doucement telle une caresse, your caress, que tu me prodiguais quand dans mon petit lit d’enfant j’avais tant de mal à m’endormir .

You don't ask definitely more help, you seem to be no longer asking for news from your children. You are alone and the fog that envelops you suggests the flight of crows on a chilly summer morning in the tall trees that lined the canal in Briennon .

Tu es là à attendre qu’une porte ultime s’ouvre dans le mur de cette chambre que tu n’as jamais investie. You are the gateway to an opportunity not to be missed. Tu attends un dernier train qui siffle dans le lointain mais qui tarde à apparaître. You have nothing more to give. Ce qui t’appartenait ne t’appartient plus, what was your home, you have been dispossessed. Ton appartement a été occupé, la vaisselle du dimanche et des jours de fête a été éparpillée, even your signature was copied. of hope, point. De sourires sur ton visage, point. La trompette dont tu jouais à été offerte à l’enfant d’une soignante. Your last piece of luggage is packed, et puis d’ailleurs ça fait bon temps que tu n’as plus de bagages. You gave, … we have taken .

Occasionally, in moments of lucidity, you could have asked for it to go a little faster, that the end of the tunnel opens to the large terminal light, so they say. But the do you know what's next ? I so wanted us to talk about this. I would have liked so much that you take this initiative… And it is now that I hear, that I measure all that a father is able to give to his children when he is aware of being part of the great chain of generations and that his own life, unique and sacred, is at the service of others .

Maybe this will be tonight. Maybe in a few days. become cold. Let the bones break like glass. That the blood no longer circulates. That sudden stillness be a relief after suffering. Let the tick tock of the pacemaker make a hellish noise in this inert body .

The black vehicle still hasn't arrived. But what are they doing all these so-called alive to drink pastis, to play belotte, to wallow in front of the TV,  as it freezes on the edge of the pack ice ! ” I wait, me, the hearse ! “

I remember the tour of France that we went to see with Charlot, in the years fifty. It was a step against the clock. The last runner to pass was Anquetil who had the yellow jersey, and then behind had followed the broom wagon. The party is over, we had returned by the train from Versailles to get off at Pont Mirabeau station and return home via Avenue Emile Zola. I held at arm's length a paper bag containing some small advertising objects that I had managed to catch on the way of the publicity caravan. It was sunny, a July sun was playing with the foliage of the avenue. I liked this transition from shadow to light and I I jumped on the perforated cast iron plates that surrounded the trees. I was happy to have spent some time with you, papa, my little daddy… And this broom wagon that is waiting !

Four years ago and half, when mom left us, I stayed with you for a week rue de la Jarry. It was there last time i was really close to you. You never asked me questions other than strictly material. You never cried. Never you did not spontaneously evoke any memory. If sadness there was you wouldn't tell me didn't show it. I was doing it “delicate” with you so as not to make you glimpse my deep distress and I did not push you so that both of us wept over the departure of our wife and mother. I was afraid that you you collapse. I was already measuring in the silence that you showed – it is always me who started the conversation – that your mental state was disturbed. You seemed elsewhere from all this. Your lack of emotion made me cold in the back. I couldn't find the words that would have made you say, contact you in your sensitivity. I knew you were already a bit gone .

The 23 June, date mom's birthday, i will pray for you, papa. That you are of this world or elsewhere it doesn't matter, you're already so much gone. Your departure, you anticipated it a long time ago. You sold the house in Saint-Flour as if to close an episode of your life, as if to burn his familiar objects because after you there would be nothing, nothing but strangers who will search in your business, nothing but invaders who will destroy everything. You have not not insisted that we keep this family anchorage. You gave us the money from the sale without returning you, without saying speech. Emotions, point ; as if something about you had died for a very long time. You were already on the way out. In the weeks that followed you had a serious health problem from which you luckily escaped. And since you've been waiting for the sequel. it was not your time. The line of demarcation past, you acted like you shouldn't turn around. matter of life or of death ? Flight forward ?

As soon as the terrible senility overwhelms you, that you no longer have your head, than the trinity depression, Alzheimer's and dementia forces us to the test that we have to cross, you and we three your children who are thus summoned in as beings of conscience and compassion, of vulnerability, of transparency and in cold blood, of reflection and understanding to what is ; we owe ourselves to be witnesses of the great work of life and death to sustain us in welcoming and helping each other in order to lend a hand to those of our loved ones in need. We should have nothing to hide. We should stay united. We should talk to each other. What is left unsaid only engenders a withdrawal into self, rejection and ignorance of the other and much misfortune to our children and little children by the shadow they will cast on our collective memory .

When I hear the knell of finitude at the steeple of existence, I listen, I see, I am sad, I'm crying, I am alone and my loneliness I consume it with my loved ones, I share it with my loved ones who love me. I chew it, I her distills, I her “and eat”, this absolute option of finitude, for that it nourishes me and helps me to grow .

Yes, I will pray for you, to accompany you, to support you, you dad, body and soul associates, to walk with you this path that goes from your home to the cemetery where stay mom .

Papa, I you promise to remember your life story, and to honor this sketch existential that you transmitted to me in order to make fruitful the life that you have given me data, so that this desire to do more than what has been given to us flourishes given. And this, so that it is “the good work” useful for those who will follow us .

there is a time unreasonable where we put the dead at the table for a last meal, out of hunger and material thirst but full of symbolic and spiritual hunger and thirst, in order to to collect the crumbs of life that will allow us to grow on our path of knowledge and wisdom, to give meaning to one's life and to fade away in osmosis of love before what is .

Papa, dans ta démence, emanates an aura where emerges, pure and clear, a deep value. Broken ego gives way to human essence. Et pour celà tu es précieux .

The 23 June, I will think of mom, I will think of you dad, I will think of you two, my brother and My sister, and will promise to live these last years that are mine allotted, as simply as possible, in listening, modesty, respect for each person's personality, support and advice, to all who will be difficulty .

We should not hurt us and have the courage to exchange, to get in touch with our relatives, with others, even if it seems difficult because not very usual in our family culture. Silence if it can be self-regenerating self in meditation and contemplation, is harmful as, transforming in silence, he extinguishes the lamp of hope .

And since around here everything ends with a song or a kind word, let's say that you shouldn't weigh on your neighbor, nor on others, nor on this earth full of the mystery of creation so that we, the “alive on the move”, remain in communion with the Other who will recognize that we are all brothers if we love one another .

140