, , ,


As the flowers turn their heads towards the sun,

Thus, by the force of a secret heliotropism

Everything tend to turn towards

The sun of history which is about to be born.

The earth is not interested in anything

That is not seed.

The tree structure

Is the condition of man

To grasp their spirit through the body

Rake in hands

So that something emerges from the massive substance

Of this pure moment: sowing.

I want to be like one of Giacometti sculpture

To have their plastic power

That can heal, assimilate, repair and reconstruct the broken forms.


I wonder if the forest I put between me and people

Get me closer or Way off my privacy

Here we can hear rare birds singing

They make me think that I live from now on so soundless

So disappeared

So buried

I make silence my mythology

I aggregate, I record among the compilation of my life the significant segments.

To discuss you have to go down into a swamp

Words spent in vain return immediately

Like a falling tide of fetid mud

To the heart of the man who spoke them.

I never want to get involved in any ideology

Keep my hands always completely free

Not to enter any bark, not to touch anything directly.

Some may come with mute feet

They enter with no straight line, no injury but I will not touch them.

I have in me this aggressive spring

Glenn Gould spring

To whom one would have broken eight fingers out of ten

My sincerity is to be born, to die, to reborn again and again, progress constantly

Like Kardec’s law from Catharsis.

Nothing can be done against me

With or without merit

I am too established in the spiritual life

For any illusion to have power over my soul.