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
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.
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