Over the years 
 there is no saving trace   
 that the break with the reluctance of our habits.
   
 In times of vicissitudes of human things   
 the winners take the place of the losers   
 and the vanquished the place of the victors.   
   
 There is no memorial announcement   
 than the side step   
 that nourishes our childhood.      

 Cross over to the other side   
 will not avoid drawing edges   
 to swell the desire.      
 
 My boat is of taut sails   
 between the eddies and the gusts of wind   
 willing to pick the flesh that fails.  
    
 The work is life.


  528

  So beautiful and sweet and calm.    
And so deep too.   
The woman reflects much more than the man can grasp..      

The man grabs what he can.   
He seizes to bury.   
He grasps the trials he is going through and accordingly builds a world of experiences that he animates for his needs in order to exist., to say that there is, to show that there is.   
His stubbornness to be seen, out of anonymity, obliges him to charge the line of his representations, to protrude.   

So those left on the fringes of the feast develop a craving, dissatisfaction and resentment.   
   
Wife, elle, acts with his body.   
She is the mother of protective instincts and gives life of flesh and mystery.   
The advent of the being of which it is the matrix marks its territory and the immense memory of things experienced.  
Memories, she leaves them to the man.   
It has nothing to do with the facts of society heard, re-chewed and whose aroma structures the story. 
She is the earth and it is in this earth that the mystery is embodied.   
She who then seems to be at the origin of life keeps in memory what life becomes. 
She is also the recipient of things from elsewhere, beyond our understanding. 
She is propitiatory.   
To life, to death, the drops of his blood are those of all humanity, they are the oily effluvium of life back and forth by itself.  
And when there is birth, the taste and the smells take over from the idea and the concept that the man could have.   
She originated, it receives and manufactures the gift of self in welcoming the greater than oneself.
It consumes and destroys the imagery that precedes it to bloom before the hand of man.   
This is how she can blend into our world, in our patriarchal society.  
Was, arriving expectant of herself she enters a bath of gratitude for others, but at what cost.   
However, its telluric power, her obstinate quest to manifest the bottom of things freezes her and the vision that animates her then engages her by a cataleptic posture to become the prey of the wolves who will devour her for the acquisition of more knowledge.   
 
She is the guardian of the threshold, she awaits the man who, remembering the task to be accomplished, will know how to engage him further on the path towards a parousia of eternity.  
    
She stimulates the man, pushes him to differentiate himself by forcing him to no longer tag the walls of his cities for fear of being erased.  
She initiates man to his own greatness. 
           
The man never ceases to possess the woman, to contain it in its fragility, to keep it under the yoke of an unequal relationship favorable to its domination, at his pleasure, as if he could overcome his demons alone.  
The man is afraid.  
    
The woman is burning, she is fire and her flame can rise so high, than the vibrant man who accompany him with respect remember ; finally he remembers !   
   
Man explores his depths through creation, he seeks to give form to what he takes as an apparition.  
He is then beside himself.   
He juggles with his imagination.   
He has to give the change.   
He plunges into a recriminating flood of cumbersome crystal-wrought thoughts from the tears of dawn.   
He works, he paints, He makes music, he sings, he is a poet, all things that can only contemplate the already there, deja vu, the beautiful, that he offers to the worshipers of the "same".  
 
The man fills his house with gold, junk, of silks, sounds and artificial light to add to the effect of the true powers of women.   
To overcome the otherness of women, he creates the ephemeral, the possible, l’illusion.   
He beats the countryside until he's thirsty.  
He imposes his own criteria on the woman, including those of seduction, of a form of beauty that he hopes to see become a founding principle, a direction loaded by the games of love of opportunity.   
The man tries to open up to the presence, to be more real, on the edge of the abyss, unfathomable, where nothing happens, the void, out of lost illusions, he who can only enjoy the gaze of the other.   
 
Obstinate in the idea of ​​proving himself and assuming responsibilities, he avoids the source of his origins.  It's in the night of the soul.   
Far from him the tip of lucidity.   
The man, this unloved, feeds on the virtual in search of a representation of what he senses as real and will never know the other, soulmate.   
Man does not reproduce ; it reproduces the conditions of perpetuation of the species hoping that the social security environment that precedes it will do the rest until the gates of the known.   
 
In marshes covered with dry sphagnum, in the mists, he hears the women singing, away , like a whisper while armed with cutting tools he proves ineffective in front of multi-dimensional white shapes. 

To know too much, to be constantly on the lookout to want to understand and judge, we might set up decoys and pass by the circle of mysteries that no one enters.   
 
That no one enters it without having purified, we might be devoured.   
 
The man must reintegrate his own body and take the woman as the initiator. 

     
  527

   Little rose of the French alleys   
 had come over the canopy   
 fiddling with ideas as old as his pants   
 while from below   
 washing the bodies.   
   
 It was moving   
 it was moaning   
 there were plenty of them   
 and the rain over it   
 served a fine accompaniment   
 punctuating the pang of the horse   
 desperate for freedom   
 on the plateaus hemmed with short grass.  
    
 Little rose put on her glasses   
 and everything turned pink again   
 the fruits   
 the corbelling of the windows   
 the cat that passed by   
 neighbor's horn   
 the very air smelled of roses.  
    
 To run away   
 not   
 rather join   
 such music by Lully   
 harpsichord on the happy event    
 with wild shivers   
 childhood pet peeves   
 which put us all faceted   
 we the eyes of the cyclone   
 plagued by the passing of the witness.  
   
 Little rose measure your steps   
 it will only last a while   
 woman will come   
 adorned with tenderness   
 without spirit of revenge   
 give birth to the Spirit   
 impulsive whisper   
 denting the coral reef   
 of a language   
 rose   
 in the swoon of the lagoon   
 inner kingdom   
 where to be born and reborn   
 in welcoming what is to come.     

 
  526

   Windswept   
 wolf hill   
 disheveled reflects   
 the northern mists   
 of our dear Nature.     
 
 point of hesitation   
 there is the call   
 from earth to sky   
 the drum vibrates   
 in the passage of wild geese.    
  
 Matter    
 undine people   
 than the Red River   
 covers with fresh kisses   
 the tender cheek of missing women.   
   
 Bare feet on the moss   
 caresses of the hanging birches   
 the charms screen   
 with a fragile rustle   
 of the fugitive with the feathers dressed.   
   
 There is no future   
 in the pine forest   
 with fragrant lichens   
 that moving moose   
 to the cracking of dry branches.
      
 Caress of a butterfly   
 on the flower offered   
 in the grip of light   
 we will reach the port   
 where to broaden our gaze.   
   
 In the perforations of the foliage   
 under the rays of the sun   
 the shadow dances   
 to the cries revealed   
 of our sad souls.  
    
 lost   
 prone to groping   
 the umbilicus of dreams   
 the guardian of the threshold   
 give voice.   
   
 Let's be the Source   
 the nature of the three kings   
 the delicate instinct of inner mechanisms   
 the deep Heart in dazzle of the encounter  
 the opening of the mouth so that the words bloom.  

 Let's walk to ourselves   
 there is no break   
 between inside and outside   
 that the reversal of the direction of our gaze   
 in familiarity with the Griffon of contradictions   
 unified.
 
 Parade the white creatures   
 to the peak of the Ultimate   
 in appearance before the great All   
 passage from the moon to the sun   
 place of nesting.  
    
 There is no azure that remains   
 the melodious song of our will   
 at the breath of the Spirit assumed   
 only a light journey   
 under the canopy of our finitude.   
   
 
  525

Of joy   
by this whiteness   
at great height   
He went   
the tired sandals   
dangling arms    
la casquette de travers   
by the path   
towards the river   
to regain   
his friend the captain   
king fisherman   
the brotherly lover   
simple   
clear   
francs   
on the shore   
with scattered violets   
in opening   
of the sky   
trees   
faces   
my friend the poet   
drunk with reality   
fragile in his wandering   
sensitive to immense pain   
bearer of hope   
imperturbably ensuring   
Brotherhood   
question not to infringe   
his role   
dream maker   
with these figurines out of the bag   
dolls of flesh and spirit   
like so many mirrors   
arranged on the wooden bench   
in courtesy of our meeting   
where to declutter   
you came from the foreshore   
me nights of loneliness   
convinced   
to pass on our values   
without making guinea pigs   
in front of our house    
the world   
to which we owed so much and so much   
Mon   
the requirement of love   
the other   
the gift of the heart.        
 
 
 524

 Little Peter came out of the mud   
 reptilian head out of the mire of days   
 he put on his silver cup   
 pockets full of moonstones.    
  
 Spindly in his gait   
 on one level with everything   
 welcoming the other   
 he put away his excesses   
 under a bundle of dry grass.
      
 Peter is no more   
 and its sylvan memory   
 back in the throat   
 such clumps of acrylic paint.  
    
 There's a storm in the air   
 the beautiful strolls   
 on the cathedral square   
 in contention with the offer   
 that fresh kiss on the neck   
 before clean takeoff.  
    
 My soul   
 what was good   
 is slack   
 on the ceramic paving of the nave   
 crawling belly to belly   
 to the center of the maze. 
     
 Burst of life   
 in its fiery energy   
 to widen the span   
 or we were assigned   
 at the cutting edge of momentum.   
   
 Little Stone   
 my son of the earth   
 to dig with my old hands   
 under construction comings and goings   
 of gratitude sealed   
 like wrought iron nails   
 in olive wood. 
    
 Pierre
I owe you the bud of beginnings.   

   
  523

   D'opulents cumulus   
 lit up the night   
 of a fertile storm   
 blotchy with stinging lightning.    
  
 Glow in the tubing   
 to go back in time,   
 in the vestibule of outrages   
 nature is beautiful   
 who knows how to look out the window   
 mid-season   
 autumn approached   
 in the summer drought   
 making a carpet of crisp leaves   
 the smile full of sharing.        
 The morning was expensive of vitality,   
 the church bells thought they were Easter,   
 the roosters cocked themselves,   
 the donkey began to saw   
 of his rusty master key   
 shadow trail,   
 the doves blessed with their coos   
 a sky enamored with rosy clouds,   
 oh sun !   

            
  522