It's the father who gets up at night    
 to reassure the child.        
  
 It is the flower which in its vase    
 creates the water of his thirst.        
  
 It's the beyond to say yes    
 that is to say I am waiting for you.        
  
 It's the insomniac who welcomes the night    
 without the suspicions of the day.        
  
 This is the metonymic order    
 under the umbrella of oblivion.        
  
 It's the shadow cast by memories    
 on a clear summer day.        
  
 It's neck and neck joy    
 the silence of the meeting.        
  
 It's going abroad    
 when everything matches the fold.        
  
 It's getting on a chair    
 clowning around in public.        
  
 It's marrying hemp and mouse    
 in the palm of his hand.        
  
 It's jumping into the water    
 when does the vision pass.        
  
 It's the wheel that turns    
 when the kernel cracks.                
  
 It's the song that rises    
 like the flame in the hearth.        
  
 It's the crumpled paper    
 that the basket welcomes without remorse.        
  
 It's the drop of water    
 which zigzags on the misted glass.        
  
 It is to listen to the word of the other    
 without flapping its wings.        
  
 It is to be silent    
 when the tumult of the exchange grows.        
  
 It's protecting the little word from nothing at all    
 who comes out shivering from who knows where.        
  
 It's picking the apple    
 without being forced to.        
  
 It's walking straight     
 towards the storm of unreason.        
  
 It's retracing your steps    
 when there is nothing to see.         
  
 It's reaching out    
 to receive writing ink.        
  
  
  
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