World & Roads

By : Dr. Aziz mohamed

World and roads

Log books

World and roads It is our duty to open around us to them large treasures of the spirit in the world, to climb the éverests of the African heart still hidden up to now in the beliefs of the lapse of memory and it is why I sing on Africa, Africa which I know and which I like so tenderly. Let finish to me on a capital note of materialism, us as a race, suffered from a great occasional physical deprivation by slavery, the imperialism and all the other obeying forms of the physical constraint. but the physical inaptitudes result from these forms of aggression are not nothing compared to the enormous intellectual losses and morals which we have undergone during years, in truth of bad conditions physics, such as the forced labour. it must be clear for us however that the things against which in so much than race, we must resist without compromise are the last vestiges of the aggression intellectual and cultural which exists of our time, those are more insidious because their tests are perhaps even paralysing than the imperialism and the colonialism, we can see the political imperialism because the aspect of its chains is obvious, but the cultural imperialism which comprises the remainders devastators of political subordination is a blind force which depreciates our traditional treasures and even some time returns to us ashamed of being found associated them in time of the supposedly elegant cultures of the west, many people, exasperated by the apparent inequalities which exist between the two cultures African and European threw often their weapons in despair of cause and declared that we should nothing have to make with our past because it appears relatively late and because that would take centuries to raise it on the level of the Western models, they seize

any occasion to extract our rich person culture from the all powerful ones from last and sweeping gray dust of the centuries, to expose this one under his lately found splendour so that the world the way and admires it. Letters and humanity Certain people seek with sum of money our right inalienable to humanity and forget that our good which crossing different ways, is not less glorious. if we return to our thought, if we do not even take us not to us of initiative to make share a world external of what we have in our own ground, the Western world will not appreciate probably any manner the values which we have, our music can be foreign only for inexcerçées ears in the same way that of another languages will appear we it with us, before we did not have the occasion to learn them, we must recognize, however that the value of our music and our languages as a universal heritage depends much on our aptitude to interpret them for the external world, thus we can transform regional treasures into a world heritage which we would be proud to freely divide with our neighbors. The respect for the political power is large, it is the same for scientific discoveries and for great exploits of physical endurance like the crossing of the Atlantic but it no doubt has there that the world also holds into large regards the efforts of the individuals to reveal complex trots of the spirit for the benefit of humanity. The results in this field lead to a larger comprehension of our problems and create the harmony and the mutual respect without which we cannot taste the discoveries of science, nor to appreciate the pleasure of the realization which must come from the climbing of the tops of the Himalayas.

Collections of history The collections in the libraries of history which should get for our future novelists an almost inexhaustible source of inspiration, moreover, the rich person proverbs of varied African tribes contain logical and philosophy in a manner can be without compassion everywhere else. As for the music and poetry, the true one and sincere rate of a powerful melody and words, we have of it a reserve which is probably richer which very other in the whole world. There are two dangers to be considered in our return towards the past, one is of internal origin and the other external one, the internal danger rises from the satisfaction which one tests with the invocation of the past, demonstration of a narrow chauvinism which applauds without discussion the obsolete designs of the indigenous life, this is some time the result of a certain complex of inferiority which hates the display of the weaknesses against fresh impulse and of the competition and to prefer to remain precisely in the unchanged thickets of the translation, the purists of the language, the readitionnalists in music and art and the conservatives in mariére of clothing belong to us with this group, they kill progress and make appear ridiculous the innovation by their sufficient attitude, enemies of new. It ya also species also destroying of criticisms of outside which regards the civilization of the grécoRomans as the exclusive rampart of the Western world, those which support that philosophy of Aristote is beyond

understanding of people of other nations, that the axioms of Euclide or the music of Chopin are things wasted on the African or Asian spirits because the reactions are derived of different origin, can be odd.

New conscience The African cultures as bases in a manner of writing original, the movement for the expression of the African ideas in an original writing is regarded more and more as a revolution against the occident, I would prefer not do not speak about revolts parce that the force of this movement is especially constructive, with a powerful passion for creation and a new conscience of its origin, this movement does not have a relationship with violence or hatred and it is not interested not more in the kind of destruction which usually appears the day before the revolutions, the only manner can be where one can think of a revolt against the occident is the width with which this action mecontement expresses serious in front of the mean production of original literary work and creators by African. a general study of the efforts tried by African in their literary past would probably go up that the work of these pioneers was almost entirely based on the processes and the models accepted by their Western fatherlands of adoption thus the African writers in the occupied territories wrote in foreign language and mainly about ideas and of situations characteristic of the dominating nation and others wrote according to their affiliation colonial, it exists even consigned in writing a draft of Latin philosophy of the more scholars. one admits that for many years to come and until

national languages largely accepted can be developed, this process of foreign car expression in language must be accepted, it is one problem for which one cannot find solution immediate, but a concerted and determined effort must be made for the examination carefully, in criticism and without passions, because a larger evil could appear of a sudden rupture and without discussion of with our immediate past, if a similar rupture occurred, there would be a serious hiatus in the literary production, and intellectual progress , can be literary groups in Africa will carry could be stopped an urgent interest to the need for studying this problem. Writing and monotony We owe occupied ourselves, immediately of a major problem for which there could be a solution which would be largely rewarded, this problem is the unpleasant fact that the majority of the books on one or a subject of Africa was written by foreigners who write according to the particular poetry which interests them, African protested against this state of affairs for a long time , and we must now make an effort to remove it, in my own country a new company of writers started with energy to deal with this point fable and made of sound to better secure the active contest of the offices of education of the government, missions and institutions deprived by encouraging the production by African of a literature in the community and elsewhere, in truth, it goes without saying that the principal stimulant for a creative feature in Africa should emanate from our own country, it exists in this one a richness of culture which can become the principal source of a large literary heritage, one finds there, in the middle same of Africa, fresh sources of a new life that nature holds in the world tired and overworked ape the dislike of the uniformity to relieve it of the trouble and monotony.

The African writers can be proud of this large heritage, something which is rich and fresh and for which the world waited so a long time, African which must write romantic stories and of imagination not being able to have a treasure richer than our history, full with alive images of wise thoughts of sentences which depict the mobiles and the goals in the human relations.

Hegel and Africa Hegel, known as some share which the slave should not only break the chains, one needs as it reduces the image of it of pieces as well in his own spirit as in that of his be-Master before being able to be really free, to some extent the principal current of arts and letters American, as we saw, one does not manage to reflect the black with dignity and in his total psychological integration, to think purely and simply to join this current or to think of our creative effort as being simply part of this current would be equivalent falling into a very broad measurement under the influence from its direction and perpetuating its cultural prototypes partly, we must make the distinction between a control of the contents and techniques of a literature and the danger of a tender which immole with this literature, it is to write by continuation of a personally felt need, at the same time it would take care of the creative sources contained in its tendency and would be defined according to the major sources its being, because it could discover them in the direction of its particular interests of its talents and of its reactions emotional, it must seek its inspiration in what the life in this company meant for him and, if it finds that productive, in the history, the mythology and the folklore of Africa, but it is only

by stressing the development of its utility in this experiment that it will be able to give ultimately its contribution more supplements with the unit, inside and at the outside of the nation. Because this cultural prison of which we spoke drew up a wall between him and its origins, it is towards these origins which the artist is attracted to recover the plenitude of itself that it lost. Negro-American literature Contradiction of the negro-American literature, of which the only way of approaching the study is to state three theorems which rise so narrowly and logically one and the other that none of them can be connected separately one can admit that one cannot do it for only one without the others and to reject only one conversely of them is to destroy them all the three. The first theorem is that the literature, statement “negro of America” is primarily American, so much so that it could not be detached from the whole of the literature without carrying a serious damage to the one and the other, as an instrument complementary to analyses history and social, and in as long as joint of all the so complex experiment of this nation. Secondly, this literature reigns of America has only little to do with the pure literature, i.e. esthetics as a theory or which practises. One wrote and one it still thinks that the negro literature of America is addressed as much to the cognitive spirit, that the spirit volitive and acting of the man, it associates, in a precarious balance, the present and the conditional one, the dream and nullity, the judgment and the payment, it is worried many the reasoning and persuasion, agent and even pleadings of exception, which besides in very often the case in the American literature. It ya however in this literature an aesthetic leaven

which to raise it well with the top of the emotional and imaginative level of the simple pragmatism or propaganda. The theoretical theorem, which rises, of the two first wants that the literature nerre of America keeps its current direction during at least another generation, direction, which will have to remain quite different from that where engaged the negro literature of Africa. That what the jazz is . The majority of people have only one surface knowledge of what one is really the jazz, and it there not place to reproach them. With the American libraries, there exists certainly of impressive studies on perhaps the jazz, but much of them is in language foreign and it N (does not have of them there only one which concretizes a definition precise or at least completely satisfactory, jazz, after having in vain lost several hours, with reading these volumes, one can be tempted to think with Armstrong louis that if there is the duty to seek, one has no means of knowing “it ya however certain things which the jazz is surely not, it does not have anything to see for example with this music sirupeuse and commercial of the popular dance bands or 'rock' roll " the day is neither stagnant, nor standardized, an air of song becomes jazz only when one executant adapts it, the model and makes him say what it wishes, not by playing an air standardized such as it was written, but by insufflating to him a new life thanks to his creative capacity and its originality, he worried more feeling that form of the emotion that melody, the improvisation is the sap even jazz, one could never transcribe all that is played, because the artist of the jazz creates in is carried out, the jazz was

during its history in hut with incredible prejudices, and that parce that which he was born in lanes of new the orle years, resulting from the negro spirituals and the songs of work. Il est fréquent aujourd'hui de voir d'éminents musiciens contribuer à faire mieux comprendre le jazz et à faire disparaître quelques-uns des malentendus qui l'entourent, bien que certaines de ces derniers subsistent, ainsi, le préjugé selon lequel les musiciens de jazz seraient des illettrés de la musique alors que , comme je l'ai montré plus haut, le jazz a tellement évoluer que les musiciens ont acquis une grande connaissance de la théorie, de l'harmonie et du contrepoint, quelques amateurs se plaignent même que la façon de jouer de la nouvelle école est tellement cérébrale, qu'elle ressemble davantage à un exercice technique qu'a de la musique. Revolution in the jazz A revolution occurred in the kingdom of the jazz when the concerto for and symphony orchestra jazz band of Rolf Liebermann, a Swiss type-setter was carried out with the royal festival hall of London, under the direction to sir Eugene Gossens with the contest of the symphony orchestra and the dance band of the BBC, if somebody had predicted a similar innovation it ya thirty years, i.e. the harmonious fusion of a whole of jazz and a symphony orchestra, in the most elegant concert hall of England, it had been treated of insane, the concerto in question contains four forms of jazz, the jump, the blues, the boogie-woogie and the mumbo, connected by musical reasons, the creators who sought fuller forms of composition sometimes tried by all kinds of clever means to reconcile the concerting music and African polyphonic science, but in vain, Rolf Liebermann, him, although it does not have anything very again to say, with successful the

challenge, would not be this that by the charm of its freshness, this work shows vastest human dimensions to which the jazz can claim, it appears there also this modern form of the hedonism which starting from the simple physical stimulant of the notes and the vice of the noise and the fury, destille a symbol of transparent perfection, the sphere of activities of the two orchestras are complementary there, if although expressed passions raise one the other, which makes it possible the unit to strike like the lightning and to sigh like a Zephyr. The Great louis With time, the jazz achieved miracles, it is American who knew almost more success at the time of his voyage of artist in Europe, that many diplomats have to visit, I want to speak about the trumpet player Louis Armstrong, it was accomodated with enthusiasm at the time of his arrival to the royal festival hall, of extremely serious criticisms, even preserving of the members of the royal family, the hundreds of thousands of amateurs of jazz paid their tribute with this genius musical, the largest characters acclaimed it like one of glories of our time, if large east power of the jazz, during its first appearance in 19360-2, with the conservative in the English public, much of listeners left the room before the end in the concert in the middle of the uproar and of the whistles, it is today more interesting to note the change operated by time. It is really thanks to Armstrong louis, that the jazz is at this appreciated point, it has a crowd of admirors in the world that do not cease analyzing all its recordings. the State Department in Washington became aware

of the utility, for ends of propaganda, this product of African origin which is the jazz over these hundred sixty-eight hours of emission per week, the 'voice of America ", devotes fourteen of them to the jazz, i.e. two per day, an official European with very on this subject noticing that with the jazz, you will be made always more friends “the State Department organizes, for the musicians of jazz of the rounds in concert abroad " not with a strictly financial aim, but to support the exchanges of friendships. During one of its last rounds Louis and his orchestra had received a delirious reception, it was the last .....!

MUSIC Supreme forces of which I am fanatic, I learned how to build my life. On airs melancholic persons, By merry melodies. I learned that all was not finished… Much more extremely than of the words, an enormous feeling of freedom, Attracted me, made shivered then envoûtée forever. Such is the reason of my life.

Music… More than one passion… It built my hopes, prevented me from sinking, With fact of running my tears then dried. A real need without conditions. All, around me is solidified, I let my heart be expressed; The music which delivers me of all sorrows, I have only to close the eyes and to let myself carry…

It makes me become queen. A grand opera in Paris or an air of guitar close to a wood fire, Cordial agreements, Against the fresh air of the dawn. It is in all cases my light and my voice. On a point of organ I finish this simple text, To let to you escape, during time that it remains you…

With the Sound of the music With the sound of the music I let myself transport Towards a fantastic world Where it is allowed to dream I left In this marvellous universe Where all is magic Where all the world is happy I breathe each note Furious I taste each agreement So far it transports me If free is my body The words learn to me All kinds of things on the life And what the love brings me All that one had never said me To like not to cry This music will never drop to me It will continue to learn to me To influence me.

My music Beauty of the sound, I made the discovery With my desire for knowing the keys of the music Precociously the doors are open for me With the “violin” of fortune like ancient times

With this instrument I tested feelings Making me think of composing on all that I like With first note, not of pause, even by moment My music is composed for a supreme grace. I granted my heart to the violin of the night To play of the bow slipping on the wind Thousand sounds enchanters to drive out the trouble On the proud hairs of the burning dispach riders All is music with which likes to hear Simple notes on a beautiful range That sounds splendid to let the heart split All is magic to let itself carry When I had the blues or the heart in fado When my heart is heavy or feeling rate Concern in head or of the troubles full the back My music takes shape in jubilation or silence I compose for my pleasure and my friends Sat between the colchiques ones forgetting time A Mozart genius in me is deadened Violin between shoulder and chin My skilful fingers go up my style of range Are only velvet with the flown away notes Will try to allure young girls and ladies The experts escape to me, but go me enjôler.

Gold fingers My small fairy with the gold fingers You cheeks and you cheeks still Notes of music Magic songs Small end of woman You fill with wonder the hearts And makes beat our hearts With passion and softness You are our champion And always you astonish us

God gave you the gift to like Of reading and learning how to play This evening you very gave Making us, of joy, to cry Offering your tenderness to us Oh! Beautiful and soft princess LOVE FOR AFRICA Speak about the children of Africa. Africa speaks about this so beautiful continent, that the sunlight shines through Africa of is in west of north in the south. Africa speaks about this wise old man who does not need to speak to include/understand what he wanted, its heart said all. Africa speaks about the light which lights the way of these children. Africa speaks about the light which illuminates the eyes of these children who do not ask god to have a good life. Africa speaks about your charm and your softness which the world does not want to admit it. Africa speaks about this continent at the place or people are happy. Africa speaks about love, of hatred. Africa speaks about fidelity and the inaccuracy. Africa speaks about happiness and misfortune. Africa speaks about freedom and the inequality. Africa speaks about justice and the injustice. Africa speaks about you pain. Africa speaks about misery. Africa speaks about my past. Africa speaks about our dubious future. Africa speaks about our ancestors. Africa speaks about courage. Africa speaks about the war and about after war. Africa speaks about the tyrants and the

dictatorship. Africa speaks about martyrdoms and the revolutionists. Africa speaks about your fear, I will help you to convince it. Africa is poor but rich in happiness 'in beauty, tradition, dialect and history. I am African, Africa my parents, my country Africa, my heart Africa, my fatherland Africa, my Africa nation

My Africa Where a lady saw Or white or red With the form and the face With half also divine That a African young lady In the soft extase Of a merry lady? With which is this baby? It is the baby of the mother of Mohammed Put under the palm tree Where you come from the spines to profusion Put it under a kapokier Joyeusement look at kofi Who will be struck by a branch of the kapokier Africa sinks? Me which high royal pyramids And maintenance richnesses Césars conquerors In my tempting pressure? Africa sinks? That rocked the doubtful child Civilization On the mobile dreams From the feeder Nile

And gave to the incipient nations Of the west With the present Greek The plugging glare of iron and steel Darkens some time the nonmental value Also when I scorn My arcs and my arrows of last time And hardly troubles me about iron and steel One calls me dark in the whole world Me, much more serious than the cold steel and iron Is quiet art To think together And of living together What let us wait to sing itself together

Fields of the letters Saturday on the seventh street Full-clotheshangers women gray of a hair in pullovers of Sunday To move by the nuances bronzings of their cabins Cakes of surplus of curve which they made cook with the furnace at the house They look at fixedly downwards on the sleep of stuffed cabbages They stir up with the enormous spoons sauerkraut and the potato pellets

Cooked as these dishes were made cook above deeply Misty plains among the noises of the horses Close to the fields of the black cotton soil on other side of the sphere That only oldest think them you recall To look to the bottom of their windows in the world Where everyone is now Nothing the young people still cried with the odor Cabbages These sheets all the face Nothing young people after long voyages Weeks in ships And fixedly looking at the strange coasts by the fog in the first light At summer recognized by the vapor of sauerkraut It is older than no matter whom who saw Thus on the street they play the music The EC what they do not remember They sing places which they did not know They dance in new costumes under the windows In the odor of cabbages of the fields Nobody saw The wish of marriage I was not held with the furnace bridge, I was held With the foot of the chorus takes a step, with my liked, And the minister was held on the higher stage To hold the open bible. The church Was wood, ivory painted inside, aucuns nobody Gods Perfectly cleaned stable. It was night, Arises external, a mud ditch, And interior, of the roofs, flies Fell on the opened bible, and the minister Inclined and swept them with far to him. We were held Close to one the other, crying slightly With fear and fear. In the truth, we had married This first night, in the bed, we had been

Married by our bodies, but now us was held In history this which our bodies had said, End of the lips for saying end of the lips, we say now said publicly, Collected together, death. We were held Being held by the hand, however I also Held like so only, during one moment, Right before the wish, although taken The front years, took. It was a wish Present and future, but me smelled To have a certain contact distant past Or the distant past on top, I felt The phantom quiet, dry, crying of my The marriage of the parents there, some share In space can be the luminous one of Downward flies, rebounding slightly Because it struck to give up all the others, then was swept Far. I felt as if I had come To claim promise to it softness that I had implied Of their acidity; and while I had Come, congenitally makes indignant, to request. But, I had worked around this hour All my life. And then it was time To speak it offered to me, no matter What, its life. It is very that I have , this evening, accept the gift I had wished ardently for the word that I had accepted it, As if being asked whether I breathe. Do I take? I. I take because it to take were to us Practical of this. Do you support this pleasure? I. The league of the minor characters The principal character rests on its bed of childhood Naming very which is the outward journey ex work, the ex-wife, Ex-better friend and apprehends finally The breakdown that we felt coming since the chapter five.

When its doctor calls with test results, the major part of uses decides to remain the minor characters Like the donquichottesque close growth Sequoias of bonzes, or the waitress with deeply Glasses and a passion for failures, Because principal character, in the thrall Of a piece of ground relentless, cannot prevent oneself from descending towards The edge of crumbling of cliff. And which needs that? Some inherit genes of the generations Minor players, some must learn how to keep These Sunday shone upon with paper Completely of the heroes in distant shooting. And some among us The iwho' ve obtained sufficient during years turns another page, Light the play of football, up to one day Rings of bell. We close our books, Adjust our eyes, and the protagonist Fields while requiring oneself in our lives With its entourage of covetousness and language, Pain, brilliance. Heroes, anti-heroes, it hardly prone With the luminous lights this. Peaks of music And it is time to speak.

Amphibian My daughter wants to take A oil-base paint framed at the school, A nudity with loose centres and a belly Ripe like full moon. Why? Since Us are student splashes, it says, And it is a frog. I pile up my head To consider the angle of the draped arm But cannot obtain after the female form. My daughter, although, stroke

In amphibians, bringing the house Scrabbleuse of the images of the germination of tadornes Widened feet. The night, it sleeps In the room to be slept I painted it pink, It racks furnished with the confectionery Teapots and cups. Per day, she wants To be his/her brother when it grows. Recently, it is morphe in Of creature of iwho' D a twisting rather freely That are held. O, how we see what us Please see. My daughter, looking at A nudity, sees a frog to show N to say. I look at it and see me.

3 (three) The single guard of the flight holds me the first role, guard Against my flickering of covetousness of impulse: teach me To see them like sisters and girls. Support My large efforts: husbandship and works. Give up me not when my wild hours come; Grant to me the sleep of night, grace softened my dreams; Realize in me patience to the thing is made, A careful sight of my achievement comes. From time to time make me the gift of the shoulder. When all the wounded nerves pleurnichent closed far the whiskey. Empty my heart towards Thee. Let survey to me without fear the common way of death. The cross am me sometimes with my small daughter: Fill it of the eyes of tears. Forgive me, lord. Link my various heart, The single guard of broad and simple holds the first role.

Shame A girl who, in 1971, when I lived beside me, painfully only, deprived, inserted, With ease mentioned with me in a conversation with some friends with whom although Initially it had found me I cannot remember the limit, to mean to go back to familiar expression odd, unacceptable, Outside of things It had decided that I was after all all the goods… twelve years after it returns to me Of null share And I realize that it was not my sexual then irrepressible, nonselective, ceaseless want It meant, What, when we had been introduced, I naturally aimed and what it Easily guided, But that which it had thought that I was really, in me, the manner I looked at and spoke and acted, What it was to say, crawling, strange, that which, and I would be taken with terrible Humiliation.

How to be a poet ( To remember) Make a place to sit down. You sit. Be quiet. You must depend at the time Affection, reading, knowledge, Competence more each one That to have you inspiration, Work, growing old, patience, For patience joint time With eternity. All readers Who like your work, Doubt their judgement. Breathe with the breath without conditions Unconditioned air.

Avoid the electric wire. Communicate slowly. Of phase A dimensioned life three; Stay far from the screens. Stay far from anything That darkens the place which it is pot. It crowned no one there of the places; There are only the crowned places And profaned places. Accept what comes from silence. Make the best than you can of him. Small words which come Out of silence, like prayers Requested the again one with that which requests, Make a poetry which does not disturb The silence from which it came. After the road I left my wife to the airport, To fly outside to help our daughter With which baby will not eat. And I lead above to Kent To intend some poets to read this evening. I cannot what make with me When it leaves me like this. An old friend decided with Stop our friendship. Others Break-in with far with its wife. I cannot what say With which of the hard Lives. And I aloud say it to me, The life is hard, and orders further In the darkness, my headlights Only going up to now. I feel my own tended breath, this fear We call the effort, making him another thing, To hide all that is true. As I slip after the twin lakes, The surface waters punts hold the first role below, I hold the wheel gently, deceleration my The body with the road, and still knows that

It is life right, not a trauma Nor died, but a prolonged pain Recall of we who we are alive. The days I am not my father I do not howl. I am not held inside Provisioning of the day of destructions. My open stay of hands all the day. I do not awake not tired and endolori, Astounded the foolish one, panicking Dreams. The days I am not My father I hold my son When it cries, let touch it my face Without moving back, you with him sleep Until it falls deadened, realize That just because it has a pointed language, Just because it is sometimes average, Just because it is smarter than me Do not mean that he will become my father. The days I am not my father You to hold is enough until You to hold is rather more For one or the other of us. I listen well. I let things disappear not finished, In an order I did not project. My mouth is slackened. My teeth Do not wound. My stays of face A healthy nuance of pink all the day. The days I am not my father I filled not silence of my clean Laughing irrational. I do not return Voices of others. I do not make the recreation Of you to go the better feeling. The days I am not my father I do not worry who gain Where loses. The news cannot ruin My day. I sprinkle factories. I make cook. I laugh myself. I can imagine to live outwards My beard, with my haircut, Without fear to look at

Too much loves my father. Days I am not my gambades of father I And play, I do not compare myself With each one of other, the night Is always rather long, I like How much I cost like my father.

Lucky

If you are lucky in this life, You will obtain to help your enemy Manner that I obtained to help my mother When it was weakened after the point of saying not. In the large enamel bucket With half full with water What I had done on the right just, I lowered the childish skeleton It had become. Its eyelids floated while I soaped and rinsed Its belly and its trunk, Sorry ruin of it sides And the fringed gray cloud Between its legs. A few nights, resting by its bed Book open in my covering Tandis which I listened to the air You in and out of its dark lungs move abundantly, My spirit filled of praise As abundant as the music, Astounding with symmetry and the chance That would offer the chance to me to pay My heavy debt of punishment and love With the love and the punishment. And once that I considered his drops wet In the uncomfortable sky

Between the wheel chair and the bucket, And it requested from me like a child To stop, An act of cruelty that we both included/understood Was to be delighted irresistible antique Finished weakness of power. If you are lucky in this life, You will obtain to raise the spoon Primitive and frosted dairy ice cream With the mouth of confidence of creature Of your old enemy Because the tastebuds at least are not broken Parce that there is a bond between you And the candy is soft in any language. Men between two ages, leaning Four movements ~ They are inclined towards rakes. It is late, it equalizes Already at the interior of their houses. The children went. Their wives are on the telephone To speak gently with someone else. This freezing, this autumn early On their spirits, small Measure of patience and respect Like if the twilight world In the pieces similar to luminous paper Decreased thus and thus. ~ They lean on hoes In spring green ground Turned once more under them Their eyes completely of the flowers Their hands completely too Plantation always to be made Grasses and waiting of dryness Their full seed pocket The water which they must carry. ~

In a darkness early of winter they lean On shovels, a heart graying The last bad dry and hard blow inside them, To look at upwards towards the sky The yard, the alley, the car The street, the world Oneself for all which they know Buried by snow in fall Even while they halètent to breathe And Re-breathe the obvious breath, Like a balloon of animated drawing of glare Of an old imperfect prayer. ~ In summer, after long mowing, They lean towards a growth Silence in grasses of cuddly toy In sheets of much of greens In the trees of their own colors Where gracious and crow Each one in its own shade In the extension sinks of the branches

Lessons

I learned This continuous life, Or not. It of the days is measured outside In tiny increments In so much than woman in a kitchen Measure spoons with coffee Cinnamon, vanilla, Or half per sugar cup In a basin.

I learned The this moments are as invaluable as the nutmeg, And it occurred with me This occupied interruptions Be like the tiny mites of grain, Or mouse. They nibble, make wee, and exhaust, Or made their small towards and Web Until you must throw outside the good stuff With the bad one. It took the two deaths And coming narrowly myself For me to learn It it does not have an infinite provisioning there Good things in the office. Art to disappear When do they say I do not know you? Known as not. When they invite you to the part You recall as which parts are Before the answer. Somebody saying to you in a strong voice They in the past wrote a poetry. Sausage lubricating balls of a plate with paper. Then answer. If they say us should meet Known as why? It is not that you do not like them any more. You try to remember something Too much important to forget. Trees. The bell of monastery in the twilight. Say to them that you have a new project. It will never be finished. When somebody identifies you in a store of grocer Briefly incline the head and become a cabbage. When somebody whom you have not seen for ten years Appears with the door, Do not start to sing all your new songs to him. You will never catch up with yourselves.

Go around feeling like a sheet. Will know that you could tumble down any second. Decide what then to make with your time. Costal Faret “ A man so much badly does not want anything like gooseberry farm. » I want a farmlet costal. I wish it much. I saw that it announced In classified and me suppose This coastal means our ground Come well downwards With the sea with the whitecaps Whipping romanticism, and farmlet Means which we can develop Knotty trees on our headland And leave the sheep wander. It is approximately cheap Enough for we if we borrow, requests And fly, pawn some poetries, also write A Romance harlequin or two, and is to him Only 9000 miles of the place We call the house. There is not much Of a tear exclude immigration Let us not remain in the country To live in our farmlet. But always, I want it and thinks that us should go Look at to it, in this moment, this moment, Tandis that the soft gooseberries of fort and prickly rougeoient. Wire with seventeen My son, an expert by over-exposure, Identify the song before I, The best of the year On the subject in the way in which the sex is good for everyone. This great man who was a boy one year ago The cranks raise the radio to the car Is a capsule swells it lies of noise, Heavy on the low one.

While it leads, it sings each strong word, With the cellular belief. It will have it all, give it all In its time, probably soon. My heart starts to vibrate dangerously At the low frequencies. This evening I feel enough old to be mother with a man. I mime my fear with him, My hand on my trunk, my eyes with far. I can feel it in my trunk, I shout. It ceases singing long enough with the sign of approval, Charmed that I noted. It is better, it howls. Words of wisdom Natural food An apple per day The doctor maintains left. The proverbial Council on maintaining healthy Early with the bed and to rise early, Returns a man in good health, rich person and wise. After the dinner rests one moment; After walk of dining by thousand. If you wish to live forever, You must wash the milk of your liver. It for which would live yes Must eat sage in May. Button with the chin Until with the capacity being inside; Cast iron not a rag Until with the capacity being outside. Our fathers, who were wise marvellous, Be you washed the throats before they washed the eyes. The head and the feet maintain hot; The rest will not take any evil Employ the competence of three doctors: initially, peace of DR., Then Dr. Merrimack and Doctor Diest.

Without title

So black the snails cross your way, Black clouds much of haïk of moisture. Even red and gray of morning, Are one day the sure signs beautiful. Red sky the morning, The warning of the shepherd. Red sky the night, Pleasure of the shepherd. Composed on the bridge of Westminster, The ground did not show anything more honestly: Chechmate it would be heart which could pass near A sight thus touching in its majesty: It of dowry city now, like a clothing, use The beauty of the morning; silencer, naked, The boats, the turns, the domes, theatres, and the temples are You with the fields, and the sky open; Very luminous and scintillating in the sky without smoke. Never more admirably exposed to the stiff sun In its first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Neurol. I saw, never was so much deeply smelled, calms! Glides of river to its own candy: Dear God ! The same houses seem deadened; And very that the powerful heart is always! Good night

Youth By all youth I sought you Without knowknowing what I sought Or what to call you that I think that I not Will even know that I seemed how I You knew when I saw you as I did it With many recoveries where you appeared with me As you made naked offering itself Entirely at these moments and leave you I breathe you contact that you taste yourselves knowing Not more than me made and only when I With started to think of losing you I Be identified when you were already Outdistance part of memory of remaining part Extract from the ways in which I learn how to annoy me of you The EC what we cannot judge holds the first role are done

Good night

Sleep gently my old love My beauty in the darkness The night is a dream which we have As you know as you know The night is a dream which you know An old love in the darkness

Around you as you go Without end as you know The night when you go Sleep gently my old love Without end in the darkness In the love which you know

Confederated My father was only two years old of 1915 When it sat down on the covering of Walter Danton And heard the old inside trailing man Its heavy chain of breath, each bond Stammering in bottom of the back of its throat. “Floyd,” it whispered, statement the name of the baby A question, “resemble the yeti,” And it placed the hand of my father On a scar the color of cumulate two employment, A shrapnel rolls up boats of Yankee This shelled pi. Nelson. Then both started to cry, There in the chair of ladderback Somebody had trailed in the shade of elm, Far from the suffocating house, Until a woman came to save them Between them, leaving one To enter the past and to disappear, The other to follow by the future. Smoke and ashes I pass each fall outside in wood, trees of demolition, cutting their trunks And branches in blocks, duplicating and piling up the blocks in ordered lines. I cover the wood of old roof out of metal and lets it rest during one year or thus. Then again with wood with a tractor and a carriage. Charge wood In the carriage, again transport it to the woodshed, throw it inside and still pile up it in the air.

All by the fall, the winter and spring I carry wood by the armada In the house, and still pile up it in the woodbox beside large, old Round furnace of oak. In him goes, fire after fire, day after day, month then Month. Any moment I shovel ashes in a galvanized coal bucket, Transport them outside to the garden, and disperse them above snow.

After all this work! A bucket of ash And smoke Gone In the air. When I call As I speak to him, I like to think of Our copy of stitched book Of Thomas more Meeting of the Utopia On the table of telephone. Nobody reads the Utopia Nobody forever Read the Utopia Nobody forever With desired lira Utopia, not Equal Thomas more. The only action It will never see Is when it abstractedly Reverse its pages while It speaks to me. When I call, I like with Think of it doing that.

Windows stops Windows stops, and grammar is On their last leg. As are we to make? A letter of complaint goes just up to now, While proving only in the stage be you. Better, perhaps, leave simply suits it. A sentence must be the pretty bad one screwed Before it obtains with where you not know The significance what it must mean had. The meteor struck. Diffusion of extinction, But the evolution does not stop for that. A rise in languages of mutant of deaths And all they of the rules is suddenly old hat. Too much the bad one for us, us what had so much a long time The best seat of the only play downtown. But there it AM, and which can indicate its evil? Such are the cut. Windows stops. Windows stops Windows stops, and grammar is On their last leg. As are we to make? A letter of complaint goes just up to now, While proving only in the stage be you. Better, perhaps, leave simply suits it. A sentence must be the pretty bad one screwed Before they obtain with where you not know The significance what it must mean had. The meteor struck. Diffusion of extinction, But the evolution does not stop for that. A rise in languages of mutant of deaths And all they of the rules is suddenly old hat. Too much the bad one for us, us what had so much a long time The best seat of the only play downtown. But there it AM, and which can indicate its evil? Such is the cut. Windows stops.

Recceuil de Poémes Misery Difficult to shout my pain, my hatred Impossible to hide all my sorrow In this dehumanized company In which the material replaces affectivity Unhappy people are put of with dimensions We do not have any more time of us to occupy some Well often, we will run after the money There does not remain any more time for the feelings It is with sorrow if one still says oneself, hello! To live it is necessary to always fight still and I dream of a better world… without misery Banished all these wars The words, the speeches seem useless to me The spirit of this world appears so futile to me I continue to dream and write my states of heart Vis-a-vis so much of misery, paper and the feather remain my only weapons…

The world cracks

I do not know any more what to say all the words are worn But I do not want to flee I hate cowardice To what that will succeed? I cannot guess What will be my future, the planet will crack. Everywhere misery cries it beseeches pity All the human ones are afraid, by ransack They create their own misfortune are entretuent without stumbling It is only one question of hours, because the world will release. The forests disappear just like the animals And the diseases are born not saving our ego How to commit suicide into two or three lessons? Humanity showed but in a terrible way. To what all that does lead glory and the money? If it should be said Amen, if it is necessary to be content When it is said to us that all goes well in Brave New World, When one takes to us for insane or somebody of immonde? This world is quite futile, I can ensure it to you There is no more tile with the roof of humanity The man sowed the wind and collects the storm To have ransacked planet too a long time.

Misery I still hope for a world where joy and peaces will be normal. Around me the storm thunders, but I keep the moral one The hope makes me hold, the hope keeps me in life And prevents me fleeing or from removing me the life. I continue to beat me I do not lower the arms, There is to fight so much and it tiredness is there, But well fortunately, my friends take care on me

Of a benevolent glance force and faith insufflate me. And if I am here with them all I owe it That I thank them! To have made so much for me In this world where all burns, they all are there for me And if the fear drives back me, I know that they will be there…

Solidarity Why aren't you satisfied with what you have? Ca seem so easy to you to say that the world is ungrateful, Ca seem so easy to you to say that the life turns you the back, Ca seems so easy to you to feel sorry for you whereas elsewhere there is not enough water. But when reality faces you, Very of a blow it is you who is of another “race”, You realize that you are loved, Whereas Fatou cannot eat any more. You realize that you go to the school, That you sleep with the heat in your bed, Whereas Salma sleep on the ground, And that it will work all its life. But awake and helps all, These people who do not deserve this life, Join them and with them pushes back, The barriers which block their desires. If you look at them well, They smile, Do not observe their way, Raise and acted.

Third World

In the Third World, in Africa or elsewhere My eye crosses glances of misery and misfortune My heart lacerates an incurable tear Of under development to a famine which lasts Horrors are engraved there and of the images of despair Who never will not be erased leaving hearts in wander Rampart with the lapse of memory, killed by the indifference Tiny room to the silence, skinned by intolerance Orée Á of this new millenium Where one wastes money per billion Here in Africa and there low in Asia from Aqaba with Bari One seeks without finding the water of these always dried up wells In my dreams, I see these children with the eyes hagards The inflated belly of famine, a suffering at the bottom of the glance For them, I can nothing make, I tell them right Good-bye Are the shame of a world worried by the conquest of the skies Been unaware of of all, drowned in inanities and wars My irritation of this distress which I would hardly include/understand Need is of a new world where the man is pitiful A world not Petri free from these incredible madnesses I remain to sing these anguishes to burn the heart Impotent to soften fears and to drive out fears O rich countries, the culpability sounded with your doors It is necessary to finish some and that famine and inanities devil carry!

Poor fellows Do not judge me. I had fun. Tomorrow I will be able to play another part elsewhere. How many closings still on my road? Poor world, full with contrasts and contrarieties But for me the life has the price of the suffering The night, all alone, I dream that I do all to burst More employment but of “large” which grows rich Our human values are impoverished My brothers die of hunger in the world; And there is always a war some share. The ground leaves in dust, polluted, And the rich countries pretend to be unaware of it I forgot that the sky was blue Here, stars are not seen And there they have stars for only coat. The raptors wait to devour their entrails. And with the place to be there, I am here and I lime pits. The interminable days come to conceal my hope. I give without counting and am not satisfied Because those which I like still suffer. We will be in 2008 And we move back instead of advancing You to be rich and you do not have anything Poor world, the human poor

The life is a myth I live in this country Where a beautiful life is carried out And where the richness is not always a myth But me, it is in the street that I live I begged bread and clothes One answered me in heart To go to earn my living

I went myself from there without rancour I was to seek asylum In each small corner of the city One then threw me to the wolves I thus slept in a hole I was sought friends They one says to me “more one is the insane ones more one laughs” And when I fell asleep One taken my bag and left To survive in this company It was said to me that it is necessary to work Thus an employment I sought The door with the nose one closed me Hold? It snows in this January With my sad fate I had resigned myself But in the morning I would be very recroquevillé And the life Hélas will have already left me

Let us save the world In infernal nothing of misery, Where people scrape the ground to be become exhausted Having for simple comfort the softness of a light, Who pains to ignite, for lack of dignity. There are African on their ground of desolation, Children with the inflated bellies, fault of not having found These some seeds for a mean consolation History not to die under the eyes of their elder. There is these Asian constrained with forced work Children who carry on their back triple of their weight Keep silent and undergoing the blows violent one of fouées. Easy labour, bearing on their face a sad distress. There are these Hispanic going in the desert Naked children feet cramés by an infernal sun,

Évertuant itself to circumvent the ground monticules Made thirsty, destroyed vêtus of rags salts. Wars, famines and diseases, These people there always underwent all. They always lived the worst without never living the best, Do you imagine in their place that you will feel has share of the fear?

Third World Certain continents like Africa, Are filled of a misery, Far from being transitory, However so splendid Grounds. Made poor by these politicians, While profiting, Of these populations, Dedicated to the exploitation. They think only of their interests, And for reason, use the market; We live in a corrupted company, Where poverty is not fought. On these continents of the Third World, That misery and the famine flood, People are cordial there, Never dissatisfied and so marvellous. Some is your color of skin, Never the back will be turned, And even when you sigh, They are to make you smile. Despite everything its, poverty reigns; And never will not leave ourselves there unscathed, Because human nature, Made devastations and that their bodies bleed. There is indeed a material misery, But not cultural, People are fabulous there, Then why such an amount of hatred against them.

Country D `the East Country D `the East exalte of light, These men T `have flees carrying their prayers. Growths by the winds of anger, They left, by leaving you behind… Country D `love throws in misery, Look with far these solitary hearts Scattered like grains of dust On the tortuous ways D `other grounds! They built D `universe so much Give up like vulgar objects; They need to change D `atmosphere, For them C `is so easy all to remake! See, they are of all cruisings! They even knew to tame the seas, These eternal nomads of the hemispheres, They are nothing any more but merchants who wander! Country rebels with the stone kingdoms, But you reappear of the doors of L `hell! By miracle, your jewels N `did not suffer, Suffered from the tragic pangs of the war. Country D `Orient bathes by the light, Watch for these men who return D `yesterday! They approach your austere landscape With in the heart a back bitter taste. Ground of Phoenix qu `they rediscovered, Prevent D `to establish their perverse play! They have already burns so many galères… Now they return, remains foreign!

Africa Africa awaits its rain It scans the sky morning and evening Hope that the fields take life . Them only the hope was given. They will divide the millet,

The wafer and the yam fried. On their head, will sell at small prices Thin harvest for their survival. Naked feet, the children have fun Vêtus of loincloth or kurta They smile under the sun which uses They smoke cigarettes, eat the coke. One puts in their young hands Weapons of war, not of the flowers Uniforms on their bodies of child And they are not even afraid. One charges them in trucks They go, they do not know where Them ammunition are given They draw on all that moves. They had Cholera, famine and malaria Today they will have AIDS and rifle They feel truths small soldiers! They fear neither to kill, nor to die. The world around them is card-indexed some. Such an amount of than one does not touch with the resources Mines soliflores and oil The world of fout, without manner. The white have the rain, The smile and drugs Capacity of the money Capacity of survival. The blacks have their hope, Sun and not of water, Their children enrôlés in bush against their liking One could have given them a square of lawn In the place of a cone filled with grass. Water, fishing nets In the place of weapons of war. They will dig their own hole Will violate then will kill sisters and mothers, Will declare themselves in war, will become insane, Military march and proud glance. Then the blue helmets will be sent,

Légionaries and soldiers, Who will hold up their own banner At the advanced post offices, they will open fire. Then the children soldiers will fall The hand on their rifle, without fear, An open hole in the place of the heart, The glance fixe.les children will die. Evils of the heart It is only heart to be written to have the broken heart. It makes known the worst by words and thoughts Who animate tears the L In the black and the fear of losing a loved being. Quiet environment where one remembers Of its doucereuses lips which from now on do not offer anything any more That painful words claquant a such whip And making too unhappy the ensanglanté heart… This heart is enclosed in hard barbed wires Who hang it and wound it, and even tear it. It does nothing but bleed, and tries to forget The pain which attacks it words that one cannot read… Is this there the exit of the so dark tunnel? Is this only one respite of light for replonger in the shade? Would this be only one match which will die out cold? ongues last nights

Terror privatoire It says in vain to me that it likes me and that it is due to me, And it can even put my heart in agitation By its soft words and words of its heart; But I do not manage to forget the horror. Since a man one day misused me,

I am this afraid with the belly without knowing why. My heart is quite alive, and he likes with excess But my body does not follow any more: it is in decline. It is like a parasite hidden in my flesh Who digs and who corrodes me while wanting to make me conceal. I never entrusted my secrecy to anybody, And yet it is there; in my head it resounds. I want to be some to deprive my man of pleasure, But I do not feel any more for that of desire And it will probably never include/understand Why I do not cease pushing back it. It is as is my life: deprived of this happiness That I cannot live, cloîtrée in my fear. My days and my punctuated nights of terror Are haunted by my memory and my pain.

To imagine a voyage I imagine a voyage towards the unknown factor A world of freedom and peace Where one can like without being criticized Without seeming to be to judge There, or one can bathed in the glance of people There, or one can smile to people There, or the world likes Is not it or the world makes the war I would like to leave on a journey, far from here Far from this life, never to return from there Never not to suffer An interdependent world or all the world is helped A world is helped without making the war Make love not the war A box of hood be worth less expensive That a nuclear bomb.

Travel

I dream of this voyage for a long time. Not both for the landscapes the moment. In my country, one is not adult by the age, One becomes it by achieving this voyage. I was born in Alorée, I am called Esmé. I am a White Elf, of the clan of the leaders. It is all the more important, for the royalty How my initiatory voyage is triumphing! They is thus full with enthusiasm, impatient and happy That I get under way in this merry morning. I leave without regrets the beautiful Africa country, For the Enchanted Hills, mystical region. It takes four weeks of tireless walk Through almost insuperable forests To arrive finally to this magic country Where I will discover splendid beings. There low, the grass is blue and soft like silk, The multicoloured flowers make music, One enivre of the water of the brooks which one drinks, One derives, one drowns, this world is fantastic! But my intention is not to let me gray Because to be an adult I must bring back Hairs of an unicorn to the silver plated reflections And plucks it blued of large winged PEGASE. It will be necessary for me for that to become their friend And nothing is riskier than to frighten them Because those which frighten them find roasts By the dragons in load to protect them.

Travel Under the paddle blue harms the fresh scents, Embraced fog and the too drunk heart, I would go with my soft poetry and my book, Towards the virgin oceans enchanters. The horizon will be our single headlight, Rowing and slipping on floods dreamers, We will have the skies, all their enthusiasms, Who will carry us in soft brass band. We will merge with the brilliant seas, The infinite one will be our sanctuary, The scum of water ink to the actuary, Engraving our Eden far from the bitter hearts. And we will know all the gold of the shores, The naked one silver plated and the vermilion day, The sail nourished with the divine sun, Always we will go towards wild places Will whirl in the air of the scents of the East, Of snow and incense, of sand and beer, Who on us will come to close the eyelid; On the steps of Ulysses to the brilliant tale. Sailing through vague well calm Their reflections of the evening like torches, With the sky of the Atlas far from the blacks corbels, Our drowned hearts it will be born from the palms.

The bird of the hope Of my opaque window in my hostile city I can only observe one faded sky. Clouds in plates which cover the city Hid and wasted this shaken azure. It is with loss of sight that this vast horizon Grisonnant of sadness and private of beauty Show its lost heart and this dark of lead Crushing the tenderness of a beautiful sun of summer.

But if I became this beautiful dove That I saw transpiercing this so thick veil, And if I flew away much higher than my tomb, If one day I could finally exceed it… My tomb, my city, the cradle of my death, It is well the depression, you would have guessed it. But this bird flew and went up without effort With beyond pressures of my tormented heart. My hope came to the sight of peace Transported by this being with the pace angelica. It bored this moult which formerly held me: I saw myself reappearing with the tropical sun an Angel Which Dances I sought the inspiration and suddenly here is the storm Preceded by its flashes, the thunder gives me the rage Here a long time that nothing goes and yet I turned the page Only, there remains still this hatred which gives me desire for touching the clouds An irresistible desire D for advancing, quickly, well, until this famous skid Accident, murder, not, not have this point I hold has to remain among the angels Errors I made some, ok, now I assume them If not how to live, not to acknowledge them to finish that consumes us In once or to small fire, already come to choose your costume After one will see whether your maque step of tune carries-afric According to how, one will finish you and me making fortune With the risk to displease with the others because the fact that one can make a success of their breakage the balls Early or late one will arrive bored in this medium and one will pass very close to the moon

Manu, Da Nick, Yoann, I make a point of dedicating this piece to you Because the life is too unjust, death found you too early Here low nothing is any more similar since you left summers Day after day the fear us invaded, one wonders or goes the life No matter what it is, where that it goes, without you each hard blow is a battle Some is so painful, for me it is like reviving your funeral But good, is necessary to continue has to live because one day our meeting again will be celebrated Wait, I have a problem, the storm breaks Still some flashes but can with can the things are packed The sun makes its appearance, my hatred from goes away, but say me what occurs It is good, I calmed myself and as by chance my inspiration releases me J me endore, I am tired, my eyes close myself plugged by flashes Ca is there, here is finally a light, dazzling, incandescent To finish I pete a lead, I awake and see an angel .......... who dances.

Music in all kind To rise late

I was too fétard to drink a black coffee to play of the guitar Aujourdui it makes beautiful it makes hot I am to raise early to benefit from my piano I touched the dissolve year it is too long I will put myself at the violin to forget that I was too idiot I am tired of rod to put to me at low or with the double bass it is a question of place! Can be are the battery which will take me along to the paradise which will enchant my life would make me dreamed in my bed Or it east can be my voice would make ego somebody respect somebody to admire This choice I already did it I am proud of me of all these benefits My piano it is my sun my wonder it is most beautiful

Just a poem The poet does not see like me It is astonished by what it sees It the made-to-order while playing with its words All the world can admire The poet contemplates to him seizes the beauty While speaking about its dreams It its to give birth to mine As a magician it m offers his poetry For m to accompany in its worms and enchant my heart Poet me I am not my A his eyes I am it

Expression

In each poem which I compose Hatched a expensive topic in my heart The words captivate me and are essential Salutary with certain pains I question myself, I deliver myself I release myself from these chains Sometimes difficult to live The writing relieves my sorrow.

The Suicide of the Birds! The Suicide of the Birds! All those which prefer being free with the detriment of the freedom of the Others… Eastern and Western, we make all of the errors. God and his Prophets do not have nothing to do there. The bird is symbol of freedom; but freedom has certainly borders which it should not exceed. If not, it would become sick, and would have as a remedy only the suicide. Before imagining the world without freedom, imagine the world without birds! We live in one era Where the honor is less expensive; Where hatred ransacks us And throws us in his cage! Where the wars yield to the wars More atrocious than death Who cuts down strongest, And seizes the ground! We all are prisoners, First with the last, In a false freedom Who does not have any more clearness! Our Peace which planed

All around the years, Us all the hope pays In a nozzle of black bird! Freedom and kindness, And goodwill, All the three are disappointed By these men who kill them! The birds are in strike. They have enough of our dreams. They drank acid; They choose the suicide! Their clouds in the sky Wasted all honey, To deprive the human ones Happiness of tomorrow! But the war continues, Without stop, slackening; And Satan held In its hand its riding crop. It drives out us its places, To save all the gods, To maintain its secrecy Hidden well in truth! Contradiction, is delirious, Dreadful hypocrisy, All these gas insults, Left nothing say! The purpose of all the world is To play of the flute, Like an old charlatan Who adores the snakes, And keeps them in a case Until the day of the mass, To make an oath of it How its role is charming!

Life of human

The love and the friendship do not have a price The câlins and the nozzles, gives some to you in is Your life consists of your family and especially of your friends All the love necessary, you will have some with the infinite one A human being does not have a price But in a direction, the human ones is worth a certain price Parce which it is necessary that you would be well nourished Then you should be found beautiful clothes For among among us, the made money started from our lives

Letter with humanity With you human brothers, I send this message to you A bottle thrown to the sea right before the shipwreck Some throbbing scattered words which resound In a murmur which flies away with the wind of the autumn. That those which will die tomorrow or soon Essuient their tears and explain to the children Why our so rich ground becomes a cemetery In spite of the songs of love and the prayers. With you human brothers, to perpetuate this message Beyond the ocean, through the clouds So that a rain of thoughts of love and fraternity Fall down on the regions, same most moved back. That those which will give the life, tomorrow or soon Pull up their socks to give to their child A world of flowered gardens, meadows, sun in the hearts

The materialism and selfishness never brought happiness. With you human brothers to accompany me to distribute this message In all the cities, villages, and to leave in our wake A perfume of hope, benevolence, and delivery For our so beautiful ground which is asphyxiated in the suffering. That those which will be born tomorrow or soon Do not listen not all the stupidities of would be saying “large” That the innocence of the childhood which, alas little by little is dried up Remain the cradle of the wisdom which will illuminate their life With you human brothers, I write this message to you A postcard griffonnée with haste, at the time of a voyage During a stopover in the storm and the pain In front of the misery which gangrene the people which are afraid. That those which will die tomorrow or soon That those which will give the life reflect seriously So that all those which will be born can be accomodated By a smile which breathes all the vastness of the beauty of the life. With you human brothers, to continue with me, this message Through the universe, the infinite one, through the ages…. So that the gift which our creator with kindness made us Can turn around the sun in peace a whole eternity. October twenty-nine two thousand eights, place “ ground” Tiny planet lost in the universe A message of land with its similar human

So that the sun still rises over happy following days ........... .

Humanity By this letter, and following our long talks I bring finally the fruit to you of my reflexions. It was difficult but I had your support This is why I answer without a hesitation. I observed a long time the people, the nations, I listened to the songs, the cries, and the speeches I saw sowing hatred, I saw sowing the love, Heard laments and declarations. I felt heat in the heart of a mother And cold petrified in that of a banker However, this banker there left misery This mother there, who flew of the cheque books. All is not black or white, all is so complicated. There is necessary to remain child to be able to explain Moving meanders and complexity Road leading to maturity. It is perhaps that reality is dreamed. One needs a heart of child and a heart of fairy To accept the strange one and the incomprehensible one, And to think that to the bottom, if all is not credible I was magic, my dear Humanité, To have been able to contemplate, in its infinity Forces and weaknesses of your truth, I found wisdom in your company. There is no good if it is no evil, All is balance in, what could be more normal?

Wants to approve, my expensive, my greetings, And transmits my regards to your population. Ink can make us weigh the anchor I address to you all, you, the large ones of this world Because anger pushes me to break your round tables. You are spokesman with the population But play with them as with pawns. The ink of your feathers mackles the treaties But condemn so many right to perish for peace That I must myself of speaking for all these people who died While trying to repair your infamies and your wrongs. You, guides, Masters and charlatans of the nations Who do not respect of anything the beauty creation And which prefers to make run liters of blood Rather than to abdicate with the rights of the alive ones. Why a so unjust division of all the food products Whereas it would be so simple to divide them? Why such an amount of racism for a color Whereas at the bottom of each one the same heart beats? Why force the autochtones to civilize itself Whereas they succeeded better than us all to preserve? Why send entretuer thousands of innocent Whereas the culprits look them while smiling? Why you cause all these horrors Who conceal the hopes and obscure the gleams? The world it is thus made the insane ones which directs a ship And run it at the same time without suspecting that it capsizes? Will know, “members of the rabble” as you these large define That they never intended to help you to live!

They opposite reassure you for better attacking your sides And as a death-blow, they will burn one day our books… The Man could have lived a quite different existence Much further from all this burning hatred, But it preferred to make the cannon fodder drunk To send it to die under the drums and coppers! Here is supreme honor of all this madness: Alcohol and the murder for the medal of the country! It is beautiful the courage of our lost heroes Who after carnage were made draw up a statue In order to all honour them to have died during the war And to try in vain to comfort their wives and their mothers… It is necessary from now on that these abominations cease Because we will finish by all remaining there. They are always the same ones which boxes But it is up to each one all to reverse.

Another letter with humanity Letter with humanity Hello Sirs! Hello Ladies! Be concerned of these words that I clamp And which claquent in these juxtaposed sentences When I empty my bag and puts to me to shout! There I make you the account of a poor world, Defying visual inertia that I probe you! This vision of a beautiful and fertile planet Is an old myth; mine is immonde! Spaces are conquered and nature dies out, The bitumen emerges spread out by hideous machines! The slopes are levelled but not our spirits Tormented by the life of our paradoxical concern!

The people spread themselves and the motionless richness Be unaware of that stress the sadness of puerile people! Their youths spirits did not include/understand That of the two twins, it must of have subjected one! The birth is a suffering which makes cry How if the heart in its first fright, knew! Death is the delivery of those which cried When soft coloured fragrances died out! It is due only to us to make laugh our babies By cleansing the air which they will be seen breathing! It is due only to us to die in peace…. Want accept my greetings neurotics!

Hope of life The good and the evil fight in duel A banal history in this cruel world. The love became worst treasons Hatred emerged to the recess of passions. It is the history of a child who cries In the middle of an old garden in flowers In the night it runs and seeks a shelter For its small body which one has ravaged. It opens the eyes on the dark light Of an empty village, where fly of the shades It only goes among the remains, Return to him its life, one very took to him. To far, in the sky a heart is assembled It in vain tries to catch up with it This faith which so much often saved This freedom which she would like to find. It is the history of a banished child Who has the hope to live another life In spite of the pain, the distress The frankness of its face oppresses us. Offer to him dreams for a little happiness,

Give him bread so that cease these tears Return him to it flame which brightened its heart Leave it misery, it is my small sister.

The hidden face… A thousand-year-old blade posed on the road of the life Cut its smoothness the wire of the infinite one. The pink of the hope fan in front of misery, Its petals fly away and drown in the waves of the sea. A dark sky falls down of a flood of tears on the ground Depositing on humanity a shroud of anger. A humane disordered state tears off the suffering With the died hearts, whose love is their deficiency. The pit of the rage penetrates in their stomach, Digging a little more, each day, their demises. The air Leger replaces the force of their bodies, Like helium balloons, they will fly away towards death. Peeping Toms behind our opaque binoculars, Driving out these images of misfortunes in bulk, We carry on our morbid and buckled road, Thinking of being able, with us only, to help them. It is better of thus living like deaths alive, Our existences, work, the house and some times a restaurant. Our thoughts distant from these poor children, Dying of hunger, in the sand dunes, wandering. Thank you good conscience to help us to survive, Sometimes, to relieve us, we send food. Let us let to the race humanity make it its infamous

work, In any event for what is that used to pour some tears? And me, behind my poem, I am ridiculous. These words, vis-a-vis misery, are quite credulous. What is necessary to make moreover to help these people? To request, ask of the assistance the four winds?

All these misfortunes In the life, I had the chance to have grown with my parents not to have to lunch of the rancid bread where still to work hard in the fields. In Africa, there are these children whose belly inflates In other countries during all this time, some whirr In Ethiopia of new-born die Whereas another share of the men complain about happiness. Poorest in all that, It is that certain words write on these media They use rhymes, make subparagraphs Not to stop all this drama but to see what that will be worth! Me if I express myself on this subject It is so that my prayers are heard And especially exaucées… But good, I know that that will not be more! It is sad of speaking about these misfortunes Whereas one cannot cease their tears These unhappy poor live without drinking water They did not even eat what on their tables. Thus every evening I fall asleep And I imagine that by awaking me All these poor beings are covered with gold But that has not changed anything then my hopes last for 19 years…

TO OP EN TH E EYES The day rises, the sun brings a heat on the body of the ground I neither the song of the birds nor the joy hears human being A noble body misses with the call, that of the heart that many men and women lost on their ways One sighs that of a child rocked by the African voice a nation people lost at the time of a war The heart travels, escapes from the avid body, blown by the impotence To be I breathe the history of the women who carried out the combat so that the future generations have the right as a woman To be I listen to the history of the men who fight and die each days for the respect of their values One gave human being the means of informing themselves and yet misery of the continuous world of existing by fear Pushed by the wind, I half-open the door of a country or silence reigns by the impotence of the words Freedom of expression, you undeceive much people do not have there the right, far too many fine wordss To still today learn how to read and write decides between whole people or the difference of the sexes poses its evils Still today of the small girls would have reverses to be a little boy to sit down on the benches of the school The difference continues to strike, it returns to the human being its animal instinct which pushes it to believe that it is very powerful The regret is posed when the difference helps the indifferent one unconsciously The reason pushes to be it to think that he says true

Only that which has faith, believes in the hope of a world in peace

My combat An unexpected meeting A love, the desire for building a family, Given again taste with the love with a fallen man too often Hoping to be able to make him give up its practice Who destroyed it with small fire A few years afterwards, few things changed If very important, a CHILD Our son was born from a love Who today is not also any more intense, I do not want any more to beat me against my worst enemy Who destroys it, Will it return it counts one day of the evil that this one made with our family? This l´à day that will be can be too late.

With the wire of the generations We were not born in a city Although resulting from a working medium Of a former generation where problems Were, unfortunately, already, the same ones. It was not a reason for all for breaking Around us, in the name of the equality It was not a reason to insult The company against which we were also, revolted. We do not live in a underprivileged medium But against the accidents of the life, we fought The RMI, the CMU, alas, we tasted there

But it was necessary well, one day, knowledge to be raised. It was not a reason for all for breaking Around us, in the name of freedom It was not a reason to use of vandalism To spit on our own justice. We were not born in a crested world With all the luxury, pleasure with our feet To have been born in an opposite social class Do not excuse a disproportionate intolerance. It is not a reason for all for breaking Pseudo revenge counters the easy people Nothing changed nor relieved forever The sorrow and the misery which prevails at side. We were not born in a city And even if poverty intertwined us Armed with courage, patience and intelligence One obtains one day, more than with violence. The attraction of the profit, the desire, jealousy Are not a sign of quality of life Whereas love and richnesses of the heart Are amply enough to find happiness. Why still so much of discriminations??? Not later that yesterday, a friend with me was victim of a racist insult, But why, to bait itself after these people, Because of their religion??? I find this gesture moved especially at our time, And even more because they is racist remarks. An insult such as it has it undergoes is punishable nowadays, And much however seem to forget it. I would never include/understand how these people Dare to look itself in a mirror the morning, After the evil which they make around them!! Not but it is unimaginable, to treat people Such kinds, all that because it is different. That the person is different from us, By its physique, its religion, its way of thinking, That it is a problem mental or different,

I find that not human to make fun, to insult All that because this person is different. But it seems to to me that much, Forgot that on this ground, Each one in its place and that each one with right to the RESPECT. I have only one question, with you pose: You would like that one treats you in manner immonde Because of your difference????? I suppose that not, then why, Does many react still thus???

Life of human The love and the friendship do not have a price The câlins and the nozzles, gives some to you in is Your life consists of your family and especially of your friends All the love necessary, you will have some with the infinite one A human being does not have a price But in a direction, the human ones are worth a certain price Because it is necessary that you would be well nourished Then you should be found beautiful clothes For among among us, the made money started from our lives

Dear Humanité, Pessimism becomes essential For me embrigader in the common thought of my similar. In spite of your innumerable problems, I want to believe in possible Guérison That Admirable People sow Already by putting the good questions.

Observe your Heritage: The Colors mix, Returning Humain the word DIVIDES And disaggregating association “Ground dustbin”. The Tolerance lights the Ways Difference With the many pilgrims Who drink Respect with excess. The Solidaires companies flower Under the extreme Sun; The fruits of the Mutual aid mature, Heat wave killing the bad plants of recalcitrant individualism. Come, Humanité, come to see Your Children Smile! Generous, you offered the Hope to them To believe in a beautiful Future. Now, looks at this Teenager: Its Gestures are filled of Love Back of the Parents Handicapped with the Life with death, today, always. Frontier illusions Because People Travel Beyond the prejudices of the Foreign Traditions On the five Continents. To feel the Presence of the Other, To listen to and Guide it Until transforming itself into True Apostle Was your mission to which, we, Héritiers, we will discharge for Eternity. Rest from now on and contemplates your Work, Symbol of a great Effectiveness; In Gift of Meeting again, The People of the World link themselves one moment and say you: “Thank You! Danke schÖn! Gracias! Grazie! Efkaristo! Choukrane! Thank you! ” and “A your Health!”

We have the Simple Chance To live Then let us not waste it between-to kill us to try To survive!

WRITING Of a POET

MA PLUCKS A LOST INSPIRATION WOULD BE EC THE DESACORD OF MY HEART MY THINK DO NOT KNOW MORE WHAT INVENTS THE BANAL MR. WOULD HAVE IT AGRIPEE MY YEUS NR ARE ABLE MORE A S TO EXPRESS WOULD HAVE IT LOST THEIR CREDIBILITY MY ENTHUSIASM L WRITE WOULD BE IT PART IT WOULD HAVE FOLLOWED THE BAD WAY OF MA LIFE MY SETIMENTS WOULD BE IT A L STRAY OF MY WRITE YOU SMALL ELF OF THE NIGHT YOU SMALL CUPID OF MY IMAGINATION AND YOU VOICE OF MY HEART ECOUTEES MY TEARS AND INCLUDED/UNDERSTOOD THAT I ALWAYS SPEAK WITH MY HEART AND NOT WITH STORIES D DIFFERENT DEMEURS

Your Faithful Militant fanatic of Freedom.

Freedom

Other poems STOP WITH MISERY A beggar in the street in spite of an icy cold,

A child emaciated with the belly inflated by a bestial hunger. Misery, why do you like so much to strike? No continent, no person you can save! You have even your privileged targets, Frail beings that the life tested hard. But fortunately all are not thus, And on their level make their possible to return better this life. And competitor to inform us on this enténébré way. Extenuating circumstances come to bring. In this lawsuit I call with the bar the principal culprit: The man, to have shown itself so often intractable. Since always the counts of indictment do not miss: pollution, selfishness, cruelty, which will deny it? Itself autodétruit, and even the ground is victim! The XXème century is on this subject a “good year”! But that will be enough T it to make shine the hope? The verdict is not without call, then with us to fill our duties!

my sunbeam you who A grows in me you who m gave this happiness you are my sunbeam you my little boy you roofs my happiness you are my sunbeam you you are all my life you are L child of L love you are my sunbeam the every day you m learns has to be a good mom you are my sunbeam you L love of my life you have so much has to learn

you are my sunbeam I T like my wire sad and solitary heart a cold which freezes a being, a glance which seems treacherous because it reveals well too easily all the concern too present. Significant heart, heart absurdity, horrible heart, too hard heart. Fragile heart when time advances, shredded heart of the cumbersome past! Wrinkled hands, wet eyes, tread, scrambled life ankle! Which future on ground for a sad and solitary heart who launches a S.O.S and that one leaves in distress. Indifference of the hearts too much worried to sharpen blades. Not enough of beauty for the wounded hearts not enough of support in spite of the number of hands.S

Poetry And if poetry could reanimated a life? To even cure diseases? If had the capacity of save a country With a rhyme, worms, time for others. If we stop returning all that one touches dust, Exhausted all at the point in extracting the life. If of some end to end put words we distribute antidotes instead of working them for handled the other. I want to give to see smiling the races, And not to impoverish, let us stop making suffer all the temp. This world turns in round, it is a perpetual restarting

Let us break this cycle so that love is born, stop of very consumed one will be losing Together, it is non-existent Let us go from the front one

Memories in smoke Of return in my town of childhood After years of wander I remain bée mouth and I am astonished Not to recognize neither nothing there nor nobody They very demolished, trees and houses Modified rivers, small bridges Trembling grandfather shows me the places Repeating without desire: they is dreadful, they are dreadful It is there that I was born, it is there that I started The house disappeared, those of opposite and the others at side Silhouettes épient me and scan me Perhaps knowledge can be the rough ones Solidified, I think in my five years Vague memories leave me and from go away My first steps at the school in the bad weather And the age of my phantasms, me the teenager.

The flower of the sun O you poets who speak about the beauties and the colors! Come this time to admire the extase odors Do not come to speak to me about my flower and its beauty Many are the witnesses come from told distances Try to imagine its features if estimated Its highly scented petals rosâtres It is a pink of the south, by the breeze of March, is refined

To have an idea of its perfume, read “the tirade of the nose” It is the only flower which does not fear to break By famous marks of perfumes it is always appraisal Continue with enivrer the experts even once died Try the nostrils by such a strong odor Each spring I serve on my heart this pink of the life A fragrant pink full with magic For another birth, this flower will have been useful to me I will add one of them to the turned page of the book of my life.

Divine Pinks Transitory scents are the perfume of the pinks, That their emanations on you, then this deposit. I would collect in secrecy these mysterious flowers To honour in front of the furnace bridge your languorous beauty Because, if they had a divinity, I then statement and to affirm it You would have been the priestess Such an amount of like these flowers, you causes intoxication Then in front of the furnace bridge, I would be prostrate, And its some pinks would have given you. Caption black notebook Me which believe so extremely in the love Me which believe so extremely in the man I try to prove to me each day That each person deserves to be called this man To try the escape To find the inspiration To test for the future To fall to the good measure It is easy to like the things Still is never necessary it to make overdose of it For me and my life

To write one day it is finished I found the good way I can trace my destiny

Crépéscule In the twilight when the one day words collected with the feet of the trees to align in silence to enter the long corridors roots in which they pass thought that they remember the place as they feel to rise far from their only healthy while they are forgotten by their luminous circumstances they rise by all the rings still listen afterwards as them listened once and they come with where the sheets lived during their lives but went now and they take also next measurement beyond the extension of the significance

I will see you The Second World War slips far, I can feel it. Its leaders are gray. Their wives who danced with the USO be gray, too. The veterans forget their stories. Some grounds which they fought inside have the new names, and Linda Venetti who gave up the husband who raised cows to run with a leader came to the house to deal with his/her mother and work the station of the morning of McDonald.

William Holden died, and my mother, who knew all words

On the street of Catalpa In the twilight, when light of kitchen-window the benches on file on grass like a fabric of picnic, it thinks of the city that it lived inside when it was twelve years old, the year when his/her father died. It remembers one evening after the burial of his father, crossing the yards broad with dogs and reapers towards the yellow light of the living room, towards a play of baseball on the radio, a porch postpones which felt like the mops sournesses. It remembers a man whom it had before never considering resting with his/her mother with the kitchen table, its to look of mother, turning towards him as if it could have been the boy of Perkins come to paint the hangar.

The patience of the ordinary things It a kind of love, isn't it is to him? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair is held vigorous and solid, How the floor receives the funds of the shoes Or toes. How the soles of the feet know Where they are supposed being. I had thought of patience Ordinary things, how clothing Make an attempt with respect in the cabinets And the soap dries quietly in the dish, And the towels drink the wet one

Skin of the back. And the beautiful repetition of the staircases.

Prodigy I developed to the top folded more a chess-board. I liked the endgame word. All my cousins seemed worried. It was a small house close to a Roman cemetery. Had and tanks shook its panes. A reprocessed professor of astronomy taught me how to play. It must have taken place in 1944. As a whole we employed, painting had almost notched with far pieces of black. The white king missed and had to be replaced. I am known as that but do not believe that that of which be I was pilot the men hung posts of telephone. I remember my mother bandaging me eyes much. It had a manner of remplier my head suddenly under its overcoat. In the failures, also, the professor said to me, set of Masters bandaged the eyes,

the large ones on several councils at the same time.

Order ocean Some among us precipitations of our houses while it is motionless light to reach the alley green and red-A lit the hall. We deeply tighten our noses in the frangipani of opening and when the Latin band starts we dance at the end of the song. We plunge our children in the ocean and drink their salted smiles while two feet far a man is drunk in grass. The sun will still burn it. Its shoes went and its clothing dried with its body like a mounting. With the end we all let us must be located downwards. If I am lucky will touch you my hand and I will remember good you made me and your beauty nobody was beautiful any more, your wet black hair, your hands completely of the pinks.

Ballet dancings of ballroom Grandmothers who extort the necks Chickens; old nuns With names love Theresa, Marianne, Who draw from the schoolboys by the ear; Complex stages of the pickpockets To work the crowd of the curious one With the scene of an accident; slow beating Of the evangelist with a billboard carried by a sandwich man;

The hesitation of the customer of early-morning To throw a glance by the grill of window Of a mount of piety; the armour of a little child Who walks to the school with closed eyes; And in love antiques, plays cheek, On the floor of dance of the union Hall, Where they also hold of the raids of charity Monday rainy nights of eternal November.

Gleam of candle To cross the porch in the misty twilight to adore to rise the moon like a yellow sign of fill-station on the black horizon, you feel the weak granulation ants under your shoes, but subsistence on walk because in this world you must decide what you are been willing to kill. To save your marriage could mean to dine for two by the gleam of candle on beefsteak increased on the pasture half-compartment out of the tropical forest with which absence could mean an atmospheric thinness fifty years as of now above the vulnerable head of your son bald person of the holidays like cells of its scalp sautéed by solar radiation break up like suspects

under the interrogation. You always cut out in sections sirloin in pieces and you feed on the silver plated forks under the glance approval fixes of a waiter with which bought the attention and French name of gleam of candle themselves are a kind, while in the content ends of the finger of the pianist float above defenses v of the cut down elephant without care, like if the elephant its permission had granted.

To make good reception with angels Personal address Only I speak to you, although you are for always changing names, places residence, aspect, affect. Reputation. When I was a child you planed in the roofs gate vault, in top the head of the visiting evangelist. My mother said that I would owe me repentance, and thus I. Of what, I forgot. I was five years. I remember how the tree, under which it was put at knees

and requested with me for my safety, ream a simple fishing which year: the hard and green bud of him. How very be long I observed it develop. There was something which I asked of you in this worn orchard. Although I do not remember what it was I asked, I know I took fishing for the answer. To make good reception with angels Between the last war and the next one, make an attempt train going towards north this voyage by the river, I only sit me in the middle of the night and welcome angels. Of welcome old women anthems behind, old songs, any music, the rhyme and rate/rhythm, welcome angels, archangels, of welcome conjectures early with the names of the things, welcome wings. I developed tired incredulity. What was in the past face draw sheet. The welcome again with my kiss the foreigner, visitor close to Jabbok. Fight welcome to the paddle, until it is my hip thrown out of the joint, my stone of pillow, my scale ancient claims. Welcome what is not my characteristic: you on the higher level, descendant glorifiez.

The poet goes to Indiana I will tell you a half-dozen things

that arrived at me in Indiana when I went this remote west to teach. You say to me if it were worth it the sorrow. I lived in the country with my dog part of the business to come. And there was a pond with fish of, I think, China. Sometimes I smelled them against my feet. Moreover, they crawled out of the pond, along its edges, to eat grass. I am not. And I coyotes of saw, two of them, at dawn, functioning above apparently unenclosed of the fields. And once a common stag, but a male, thickstrangled, jumped in the Juste-OH road, I want to say just, in front of my car and us both made him at the house the safe. And once the blacksmith came to worry about the four horses, or the three horses which belonged to the owner of the house, and I negotiated with him, if I could catch the quarter, it, also, would make balance shoes for the winter of Indiana, and the apples did it, and a cord above the neck made, thus I gained something of marvellous; and there was, one morning, an owl flight, pale angel of the OH, in the hay loft of a barn, I always see it; and there was in the past, the marvellous OH,

a new horse in the pasture, there to be-a tall and thin neighbor kept it and it put its face against my face, put its muzzle, its nostrils, soft like violets, against my mouth and my nose, and breathed me, to see which I was, long quiet minute-minutes then it pressed feet and beat the tail and danced delicious in grass far, and returned. It said, so much simply, that I was good, or rather good. One hour so pleasant I had teaching in Indiana.

Sleep It slept on its hands. On a rock. On its feet. On foot someone else. It slept on the buses, trains, on aircraft. In deadened service. Deadened close to the road. Deadened on one to return apples. It slept in a toilet of wages. In a hay loft. In the superb dome. Deadened in a jaguar, and the back of a collection. Deadened in the theatres. In prison. On boats. It slept in the line huts and, once, in a castle. Deadened under the rain. Out of sun of formation of blisters it slept. With horse. It slept in the chairs, churches, in the hotels of imagination. It slept under the strange roofs all its life. Now it sleeps under the ground. Sleeps indefinitely. Like an old king.

Truth Like children in the play of class whisper of an end of the class to the other and deform the message which they transmit or change it beyond the identification, thus us transmit the truth of our kind. My father heard his, something vaguely to make take part God, and his father heard him of his, and so on back in Abraham, and thus with father passed him above with me, but with God had released. And thus my son heard, a wisdom found inside a Chinese biscuit of fortune: “Be good and hope,” that it will pass above with his/her son, but perhaps with the good to miss or hope, perhaps with love was added.

Hummingbirds Maintaining five came for dinner in addition to regular banquet of pink géranium; the only noise is the humming of their wings. Soon it will be autumn. One is a disc of window of scaffolding; it makes a pause like with the sigh before cleaning the next section. But something, as always,

the will whirl abruptly to the top of the cords of the summer.

Now I said to you in the past when we were young that we would still meet one day. Now, years with the flight beyond that, letters not written, I am not also certain. It is autumn. There is tooth ache hidden in this wind, it determined those there produce the winter at any cost. I am resigned in the dark shades of blonde with the fires of stop, lost in the roadmaps of the sheets which point in each direction immediately. But I wear the shirt which you pricked there are two separate lives. It is old and to fall to ash, however with each button flowers flowers of your design. I think of this and I am happy, to have embraced your mouth with the force of the language, to have spoken your name about the whole.

Medallion I will leave and walk around, because it is one fine day, in the years '70, after one night when the temperature fell below zero Juste. There is not much here in the hall of the individual, I do not think, thus why should I continue to study which dream of last night meant, or subtleties numerology of the heart as shown in codings cryptanalytical in poetries of Bertran de Montségur? I am out of here, and with far on a small walk in the vicinity, but initially I would like to say to you that I appreciate your to let me divide. It meant much with me. Completely frank, I am not sure what to make days like this, or any day, really. It all functions together, in a place the goods seem to have occupied as their clean and avoided to the top so much well of others of us who are not so good, but not worst of the citizens, cannot help but feel out of the pocket, according to the saying, and I for one would like to reach in my pocket and to withdraw the red medallion that my mother gave me, what fell out of my coat in the grid by the tire before bus I had waited through the street of the theatre of Shubert in Detroit in 1959. I would say, with no matter whom around tilted listening, here something which you can have. I hope that you like it. Why you just do not keep it and give him with another good person a certain day. Say to them that it was Bertran, which came here in the past on a horse decorated all of spangles with rubies and bells of gold.

END

Author: Dr. Aziz Mohammed Casablanca: 01/01/2009