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My former gods<\/a> are the poets that I read and reread often, who rocked my sleepless nights, who spun the wool of my first emotions, who spoke to me in the hollow of my ear and heart. Have they mattered to me as much as my loves? They have merged, fused, amalgamated so that one can no longer look at my corpse to differentiate what comes from them and what is only mine.<\/span><\/p>\n \nAre they not our masters?<\/span> <\/p>\n After having written litany about the heroes who shaped us in clay and alchemy<\/a>, I can no longer distinguish them from the supermen who populated my childhood dedicated to love. These gods of beauty, these superhumans whose rhythmic paths have welcomed my first steps, my first rhymed, scribbled, smudged in a reluctant patois that smelled Bledina<\/em><\/a>.\u00a0<\/p>\n I pushed vigorously in their shadow and laughter These gods were in a circle around me, I was not ten years old. In turn, they told me words that my emotion took for slanders. I have no recollection of it. As soon as they spoke, all their words faded away.\u00a0<\/p>\n It took me patience and time. I had to go to school, high school, middle school. It took me the verses of Lagarde and Michard to discover Verlaine, Aragon, Ren\u00e9 Char, Ferr\u00e9, Brel, Brassens, Pr\u00e9vert, Rimbaud, Gainsbourg, Rabelais, Victor Hugo, Moli\u00e8re — before such a ballet my mind was excited.<\/p>\n Is that the way people live? And their kisses are following them as revolved suns.<\/p>
\nOur teachers of letters<\/span>
\nand our guardians of the Being?<\/span><\/p>\n\nThese gods taught me everything<\/h4>\n
\nthese gods have taught me everything, everything of value
\nrighteousness and love, anger and spirit
\nthe strength to be silent and the rage to write.<\/p>\n