From the brook to the birdsong echoing the mountains so tender so fragile this ascent towards oneself in the dusting of lights open mouths we will go the white halo of mornings guiding the shepherd open hand who will take it from our childhood between the rocks in the thick of a vegetation than the amble of a horse will inaugurate messenger of a last promise according to a time of offerings of frank words on the doorstep of the mind my little meadow tongue my sweet friend of the woods my unreason in Sunday best caressed so many times without breaking the antlers and what goes up the silence of prayer.
