A poetry of facts merely to mouth the words where dreams slumber, vagabond words, words like sun, bread, star, bird, garden. The gamble: to remain grounded in the world's tenderness.

 

Exile, too: a transitory, eternal place, like opening a window that looks out onto the ocean to glimpse the sky, roam around the world, invent an ordinary spring, remain always standing, feet planted in dreams, to walk, because the road cleanses memory.

 

To return to my native country, to the longed-for land where I have rendezvous with my shadows in the sun-bathed streets, then to leave, having stocked up on ghosts, beset by geographical confusion, no sense or certainty, neither here nor elsewhere. I begin to ponder a thousand lives just like mine, a thousand destinies, a thousand loves, so many songs and poems to keep the light and heart of childhood alive.

 

I walk. I walk. Remember that the poem is a crazy horse and the boat is the road. The horizon lies within the wayfarer's gaze.

 

To discover something sweet and bitter: islands, one has to resign oneself to not giving a damn about the sea in order to walk freely and celebrate the land, all within the recitative that offers the counterpoint of song to words and things: accolades and mystery. Above all, elegance.

 

Elegances saves the poem like the sun rescues the summer.