This morning
 there is no more gasoline in the sleeve ,
 the ash is cold ,
 we would have put fake flowers
 that the effect would have been more smoking .

 Not enough to lament ,
 there is also a fight to fight .

 We fight , he is bat .

 But against whom ?
 against what ?

 I fight against Pierre or Jacques ,
 while it's me who imagines lots of things about them .

 I fight against the world ,
 but why cut the branch i'm sitting on ?

 I am fighting against nature ,
 but why fight what feeds me .

 While life is here
 like this water
 drip 
 of a clepsydra in imbalance
 the glass iridescent by an emblazoned sun ,
 like this hourglass
 which grain by grain
 nibbles the time of conflict .

 Any fight seems ridiculous
 because nothing stops life ,
 go forward ,
 go around obstacles ,
 walk ,
 ascend ,
 even go down ,
 to go up , rich in the ordeal encountered .

 Never force the passage ,
 not even to drill a small hole in the hollow of the memory .

 And my cigarette still not lit ...

 ( Photo taken from a work by Elianthe Dautais ) 

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