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So many words offered to the hands of the world

Re-meshed with the underground rivers

Great chaos watched for us in edge of our islands

Great dreams raised our waves

And hid the words under sands of the world

Here come crying the filaos

We passed the threshold of the Indies

Passed the threshold of the unconsoled syllables

Because no one is safe from silence

And life is always a trap which starts again

And what we inhabit is the thought of the world

Intoxication of the words

Cruel death of the words

We will sound the mongrel (hybrid)rains

We will assemble(mobilize, gather) the Crack


We are people of prophetic traces

Of untied words

Stolen words from the wall of the horizon

And the tale in us always made its round

Country cracked and of seas dilated with the sides of the world

We know of it the use and the din of black sun

The balan of suffering

The joy of clays

The ungovernable rock with the doors of the rivers

Salt country

The poet threw the dice of the secrecies

Papered the pit of our lights

And défroissé midday of the sea

Birth of the births

The poet makes crowd

And its death justifies the sun of the consciences

Each one will invent its words

Each one will probe its own salt

Will light

Its own candle

Its own star

For better remembering than

The sky was inclined to collect its light

But it belongs to us

Its dream belongs to us

We will keep the print of the Prince

We have appointment with the informulable

Its word

Is one century

A jungle out of night light

Heart worries about the world

An archipelago with the eyes of eclipse

Its word

So many moved suns

So many oceans buckled with the ankles of the roots

So many spanned cities

So many unearthed stars

I speak in the name of a poet

Of a total and completely indelible writing

And I look at maturing the horizon

And I ask for the hospitality of  All-world

And I plant a acomat

And I gird the rock of Diamond

Who borrows your face to come

This crowned praise of marine birds

This guard  royal inspired by  your dreams

And in this place

Where the stone is made flame

In this place of intractable beauty

I look at passing the heart of the world

Fine words of the world

Ernest Pip

Faugas on February 4, 2011

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