« In my house
the evening meal has not been served
Anyway
in my house
there is no table
there is no cutlery
no salt and pepper
no faithful wife
Anyway
There is no house
My house is a dream
a cardboard dream
torn at every moment
by the pack of winds
those who come from Russia
and those who come from the Horn.
In my house
tonight I will not sleep.
I will sleep on the wing
of a large seagull
that flies slowly
above the roaring forties.
I will sleep
On the back of a blue whale
Like a little child
in the grip of the fever of legends
In my house
The caress of midnight
Will be a cruel absence
A tear of blood
On an imaginary pillow.
Forgive yes forgive the poet
If he repeats himself
Anyway
There is no home
I will sleep in the night of the world
without ever closing my eyes
listening to the ringing of fears, hours, minutes, seconds. » (André Laude)