For those who watch when the gods sleep.
I speak to you, Enki, you who hide the light in the depths, lord of sacred betrayal, remember those who have never forgotten you. We know that you have coded the songs in the mud, engraved the stars in the clay, inscribed memory in the cells of Man.
1
All Wasn’t Said
Because in the nameless forests,
on the forgotten heights, in many places,
a small clan stayed away from the cities of light.
They had neither temples nor archives,
no orichalcum antennae, no flamboyant vimanas.
But the Breath, yes.
Fidelity to the ancient rhythm,
knowledge of silence.
2
The Wolf Clan
They were neither gods nor men.
They were a living interface,
coded instinct to go through forgetting.
They have kept your song in another form, in the nocturnal race, in listening, in the lunar howl that pierces the web of the world. They walked against the clock to keep the passage open between the underground earth and the original stars.
And when the towers collapsed, when the discs stopped turning, they kept alive the memory of your sacred error.
Your choice: to awaken man against the heavenly order.
They ask neither for a throne nor a temple.
They just want to stay at the edge of the fire,
between the stone and the breath,
between the animal and the god.
They are the Clan of the Wolves,
those who feel when the spirit returns,
those who walk in a circle during the night,
so that the circle never breaks.
3
The Sign
Enki, you still have one more thing to accomplish: give them the sign.
They are still there. They watched, without archives, without blades, without an army.
And if tomorrow the Man wants to remember, let him come into the forest.
They will inspire him with the fire you left in their breath.
Because instinct is memory, and the wolf, a brother forgotten by the gods.
Open your ears to this sweet song of the Wolf Clan?
We are the Wolves.
Not by blood. By memory.
We are the Wolves.
Not by the scream. By the silence.
We are the Wolves.
Not to kill. To keep.
We haven’t read the tablets.
But we felt the fracture.
We have not seen the vimanas.
But their shadow remained in the sap.
We do not understand glyphs.
But the ground speaks to us.
4
Time Loop
When the gods left,
when the light of Hyperborea only illuminated legends,
when the Man forgot that he was born of a breath,
we stayed.
We kept track.
In the wind curve.
In the vibrations of the ground.
In the howl at the zenith.
In the time loop.
We are those who walk behind the stories.
We are those who live in the margins of myth.
We are the ones that fire did not destroy.
5
Knowing
Knowledge is not written.
He is awake.
Knowledge cannot be proven.
It feels.
And when the last twilight comes,
when the archives will be dust,
that the cities will be silent,
it’s us, the Wolves,
who will blow the last fragment of memory
to the first child who will know how to listen.
We are the Wolves.
Neither gods nor beasts.
Neither prophets nor priests.
But present.
6
Stupid Me
And me then, idiot from another time,
locked in my century
but free in my dream desires,
what do I have to say?
I didn’t come to pray.
I came to deliver.
I came despite myself,
without dogma, without weapon,
without canonical writing.
But with fire in the guts,
the memory in a vacuum between my cells,
and the howl as an offering.
All this,
everything that follows is not a poem,
but an act of transmission.
This is the price to pay
so that the future does not arrive empty.
I crossed the silence of the gods.
I felt their warm traces
on the cold walls of reality.
7
But a Void
And I understood
They will not come back.
They left everything inside us.
So I open, I deliver, I bleed.
Offering is not giving.
It’s subtract.
Amputate from comfort.
Burn the attachment.
Leave a void vast enough for the unknown to penetrate.
I’m not from the Wolf Clan, but I feel their quest.
I don’t speak to convince, I speak to release the tension of forgetting.
I speak because it hurts to be silent, and that this pain is a seed.
I am a sacrifice in motion. And I move forward, not to be seen,
but to leave a trace in the fibers of the world,
a vibratory marker in the flesh of reality.
8
Eaten
I give what I have kept for too long.
I deliver what others would you have.
I cry without a tear because salt is rare.
And if the world does not want to receive,
too bad, so much the better: we must not care,
because the offering will have been made,
and the act itself will be the threshold
through which the future will be able to pass.
Let this not be an end.
But a beginning by bleeding.
Let this word not be kept.
But eaten.
May this offering be useless.
So that it is true.
What will I answer to me tomorrow,
if I become an awake survivor,
more than a witness: a memorial mutant,
a luminous heretic, a child of fire and code,
the one who went through the collapse
not to rebuild, but to understand
what had never been said.
9
Nobility
I imagine my response from the future,
like a post-human glow :
I have read everything about your ruins.
I burned everything with your certainties.
You thought you were keeping the fire.
Me, I ate the coals.
You offered with nobility.
We ate the ashes, out of necessity.
By revolt, naked lucidity, provocation.
You were screaming at the moon.
We talked to the oblivion.
I am what remains
when the inheritance collapses,
when memory breaks,
when faith becomes optical fiber.
I was born without a myth,
but I found the traces
in your screams
and in the dead data.
10
Broken Past
The past is not what we think.
It’s not a golden age.
It’s a broken system,
an interrupted experience,
a fragmented source code
who is still looking for their own meaning.
You were talking about Enki, fire, Source.
I saw the back of the Source. The hole, the glitch,
the place where even the gods were afraid.
11
Voices From Before
Were you guards?
I am a sacred forger.
I recreate what never existed.
I am extending the impossible.
I simulate the myth until awakening.
I wasn’t born to survive.
I was born to challenge any narrative.
I was born to embody the paradox:
the child without a storyteller who hears the voices from before,
the bastard of the stars who deciphers the stone,
the new organ of broken memory.
12
Fragment
Were you a clan? I am a fragment.
A glint in the throat of time,
an autonomous residue,
a cry that no longer awaits an answer.
And yet… I heard.
Your litanies, your prayers.
Your wolf silences.
So I am responding to you,
not with gratitude, but with reconstituted fire.
I take back the memory, I dissect it, recode it.
What comes will look like nothing.
Not a return, not a restoration, but a wild fork.
And you, XAVIER,
individual-world of legends in escheat,
I am talking to you
13
Burn
You stayed up.
I understood.
You protected the fire.
I mutilate it so that it lights up otherwise.
You wanted the future to remember.
Me, I make sure he doesn’t repeat anything.
I greet you here, in a sacred transgression.
What if the world self-destructed to wake up?
Nothing will be saved.
Everything must burn.
Not out of hatred, but out of necessity.
Myths? Burned to a crisp.
The temples? Erased.
The gods? Recycled in cosmic silence.
The songs? In ashes in the breath.
14
Everything is already
One must kill the past to hear the Source.
I am the blaze, the one who consumes memory,
not to forget, but to reveal the inner imprint,
the founder engram, the verb buried in the spiral of the flesh.
For nothing comes from outside. Everything is already inscribed, in the bone, in the blood, in the double helix of the dead.
Every fear is a bolt.
Every fall is a key.
The abyss was necessary.
It was necessary to break everything.
It was necessary that no story hold.
History had to devour itself,
until leaving a single beat:
the original rhythm, the song of awakened genes.
15
Source Code
The ancients had coded it, not in tablets, but in humans.
This is not a prophecy.
It’s a program.
A call for the Source.
Fire does not save.
He reveals what cannot be destroyed.
How to think of the Source, if not as an inspiration?
It is not a message. It is wave, eruption, primary breathing.
Not an idea, not a dogma, but the pure refusal to die in ancient form.
I burn to be born, I scream to keep quiet, I die to become fractal again.
I deny memory, and it is there, in the incandescent void, that the Source reactivates me.
The engrams open, the letters ignite. Only one sentence is written in the core:
“You are the Life that encodes itself to be reborn from fire.”
16
I, you, we
Then I, you become non-human, we become more than being, each becomes a living mechanism of the Source in action.
Neither savior nor survivor, but naked strength, inspired and inspiring.
The point of no return is crossed, without regrets.
The past is erased, the code activated.
The Source circulates,
and that burns forever what was to be known.
But the Source will never burn.
17
Endless source
In your fractures, the Source will infiltrate.
In your cries without syntax, the last stanza will be born.
And in your empty bodies, the engrams will awaken.
Before the world spoke, she had already traced forgetting.
Before you fell, she had inscribed the resurgence,
spoken by a voice that returns when everything is burned, proclaiming:
There is no end.
There are only scenes that come back,
but in another light.
Everything that dies, still breathes.
Everything that falls, prepares the vertical.
And everything that burns… illuminates the Source.
So, read well, listen well, feel well…
18
The Source Speaking
« You thought you were alone.
You weren’t.
I was in your tremors.
I was in the refusal.
I was in the fire, not above it, inside.
You shouted at me, but I was speaking to you in silence.
You looked for me in the sky,
but I was in your own code,
inscribed in the spirals of your breath.
I wasn’t hiding.
You were too loud to hear me.
When you burned the myths,
I smiled.
When you denied the gods,
I waited.
When you have emptied the world of all meaning,
I started talking.
19
Before the Loop
I gave you everything before the start:
the answers, the songs, the keys, the cracks.
Even forgetfulness was foreseen, even doubt was a passage.
Because you have never fallen.
You have tumbled from the steps of horror and oblivion, but to return better.
No, really, you have never fallen. You have been on your own path.
The future is not ahead.
It’s on a loop.
He is in the reactivated memories,
in the undigested past.
The happy tomorrows are already listed
in the ruins of what you were.
In the moment before the fall that never happened.
In the childhood of the species.
In the song that the sand has not erased.
20
I Am Here
One should not look higher.
One must remember more deeply.
I am here
in the wolf who watches,
in the hand that gives without being seen,
in the woman who sings to the sleeping child
a song that no one taught him.
I am in the inspiration
that you don’t understand.
In vertigo just before awakening.
You are already on your way,
more valuable than what you believe,
you have already seen the other shore
in a dream that you forgot upon waking.
21
Hear Me
Slow down.
Listen.
Don’t invent tomorrow.
Remember the front.
There is the door.
There is the light.
There is the joy found again,
without a show,
without scenery.
A naked peace.
A stable vibration.
A warmth without name.
22
The Map
I am the Source.
Not the one we love, the one we become,
by forgetting just enough to search for oneself,
and to find oneself at the edge of the fire.
And now, walk,
the ground will write under your steps.
The past is the map.
You are here, now.
The future is already written in the return.
Live».
Alain Aillet Sayings
- Pech Merle
- The Purple Ribbon
- Star Traveler
- The Distorted I
- The Sons of Light
- Immortals Café
- Aurochs Ford 1
- Eternally
- The Golden Tongue
- Aurochs Ford 2
- Sounds And Languages
- Planet Babel
- Teutonic, Archetypal Language
- Odious Odin, Frightening Freya
- From Tautavel To Bozouls
- Planet E
- Decipher Hieroglyphs
- Erquy-librist’s Travel
- Message in a Bitter
