So this is it
I’m in the middle of my words
and I see the current of my tongue
As one would see the flow of a river pass
impossible to contain
breaking ice surge
under the crash of another spring
Landscape all in rupture which isolates us in
our nordic silence
Far from the motherland
like in our history and school books
The fantasized country of a language
whose treasure we keep
Where we once dreamed of going
to satisfy our curiosity
And come back from so far
to inhabit this land of America and Acadia
extreme frontier
where words could so easily get lost
Where already this interbreeding occurs,
this joyful resignation of the “chiac”
This language of which only the articles often remain
and broken verbs
On the eve of another summer,
I see my words pass away, run away, slip away
So I listen
I know it’s too late to change me
nor to applaud to this end
I rather try to look towards the sea
to hear the rumor
As in the story the rescue of the motherland
she too complacent she too complicit
‘Cause we’re at the forefront of a fight
whose victory eludes us
The eternal dilemma between honest snobbery
and a balance of power
A lack of words, necessary borrowings,
justifiable losses
Anyway “it’s our language and we love it”
which says it all
Which should say it all
contain us like a huge family
To see if in the words there wouldn’t be
the secret and the inspiration of all our struggles
And, yes it’s true, I am challenged by this music,
by this infinite effort
I think about the fragility of it all,
a kind of poem drowned in prose
I too believed that love was enough
to give birth to and preserve the beauty of this language
So I begin to doubt
I think of our will not to deny anything,
miss nothing, forget nothing
Torn as we are between thought
and this strict obedience
Between this other language that is spoken everywhere
and that we understand so well
And this fear of not becoming
the last castaway on a mute island
This voice by which we decided
to tell us and write to us
Faced with this continental vibration
in this incessant noise of a ferocious world
This edifice built by all those who have spoken
and wrote long before us
This echo that reaches us
like the tragic presence of cathedrals
This quest to which we subscribe
against the tide or against the flow
Displaying this vigilance of which we have no
still can’t find the color
Doubt, yes, doubt despite everything,
to blend in with the rest of things
But the hope just as much to understand each other
to get along, together and for a long time to come
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