The Song of Souls: an Indian Sequence - Web del Sol Chant des Ames.pdf · being danced before his...

Le chant des âmes

Le chant des âmes

Textes et photographies de Jérôme THIRRIOT

Traduction de Bertrand MATHIEU

Remerciements

A mon frère de cœur et d’esprit, Bertrand Mathieu, et à mon ami Christophe Loiseau, photographe et tireur de mes photographies.

Photographies prises au Leica M2, Leica M6 et Leica CL.Objectifs 50 et 35 mm.

The Song of Souls:an Indian Sequence

The Song of Souls:an Indian Sequence

Texts and photographs by Jérôme THIRRIOT

Translations from the French by Bertrand MATHIEU

Thanks

To my friend and soul-brother, Bertrand Mathieu, and to my friend, Christophe Loiseau, photographer and printer of my own photographs.

Photographs taken with a Leica M2, a Leica M6 and a Leica CL.Objectives 50 and 35 mm.

Pour Annie, ma muse,à la foisma Radha, ma Sita,ma Parvati.

For Annie, my muse,my Radha, my Sita,my Parvati,all in one.

JEROME THIRRIOT

abiographicalnotice

Jérôme Thirriot could well be called a man of light. Light has been a consistent preoccupation throughout his life, from his earliest childhood to the present – as poet, as photographer, as film professional, and more recently as a world traveler with a special devotion to India.

To begin with, he was born in Paris, a city which the whole world has learned to refer to as “the City of Light” (“Ville-Lumière” in French). It was on July 15th, 1955, that he was born there to a family that had been intimately involved in film and movie-theaters for generations. His father, his paternal grandfather, his maternal grandfather and his maternal great-grandfather were all adepts of the cinema world in France.

In fact, his great-grandfather, Ferdinand Jean, had been a man of theater and a pioneer in the film world who be-came acquainted with the renowned brothers Lumière (whose family name means “light”), Auguste-Nicolas (1862-1954) and Louis-Jean (1864-1948), the inventors of cinema and of film-making technique whose first public dem-onstration of their “cinématographe” in 1895 is now regarded as the birthday of cinema.

As a child, Jérôme often heard of the illustrious brothers Lumière. He was also told that as a consequence of his great-grandfather’s meeting with these two “men of light”, his ancestor had built one of the first movie-houses in France. No surprise, then, that Jérôme himself should now be the co-director with his twin brother François of the vast and impressively modern METROPOLIS in Charleville-Mézières, a multiplex movie palace that seats 2,000 spectators in ten different projection halls – and where, in addition, art-lovers in the Ardennes can be treated to fre-quent exhibits of paintings and art-photos in the theater’s many-windowed and light-filled lobby.

Jérôme studied as a youngster in Neuilly-sur-Seine and in Nanterre, but he later settled in Rimbaud’s Ardennes where he has been living since with his muse-in-residence and professional collaborator, Annie Bissarette. As an ad-olescent, he had loved Rimbaud and Apollinaire as well as the films of Jean Renoir and Satyagit Ray – all of them “men of light” – and he lists high among his favorite writers Ernst Jünger, Knut Hamsun, Henry Miller, and Ken-neth White – visionaries and light-bearers, each in his fashion. But a first trip to India in 1977, at the age of 22, was destined to enlarge Jérôme’s spiritual horizons in a dramatic and surprising way. As a boy, he had often had mysteri-ous recurrent dreams about strange, exotic, bearded figures in turban-like headgear who seemed to incarnate an es-sential kind of wisdom, always in a luminous and distinctive setting which he wasn’t able to place. He was puzzled by these night-visitors. What did they want? What did they mean? Where did they come from? The landscapes of these dreams eventually became oddly “familiar”.

In 1977 came the answers. On an impulsive one-way trip to Delhi, the youthful Jérôme met and fell under the spell of a captivating young Hindu dancer. She lost no time in informing him that his destiny was “waiting” for him in Kashmir – just like that! There was something oracular in her tone, something sybilline. Jérôme didn’t hesitate. He left immediately for Kashmir and, in Benares, soon after he arrived, he “recognized” the landscape of his childhood dreams! There it was, at last. Quite soon he found himself assiduously studying Hindu classical music under the guidance of the distinguished tabla player, Sri Chhote Lal Misra, who, it appears, had been quietly “awaiting” his arrival at the Music School of the University of Benares.

On subsequent visits to India, it was not only his passion for Hindu music that drove Jérôme but also an earlier interest in photography which revived. The remarkable photos that accompany Jérôme’s poems in this issue of DOUBLE ROOM testify abundantly to the etymological meaning of the word “photography” – from Greek roots which signify “writing with light”. Anyone who scrutinizes these photos attentively will plainly see that between the lenses of Jérôme Thirriot’s camera and the ancient dream-landscapes of old Benares, there is an intricate dance

Jérôme Thirriot and Annie Bissarette, 2005

being danced before his or her eyes – the dance of Shiva!

But why Benares? Why indeed is it that Jérôme and Annie seem to be “called” again and again to Benares? Benares is said to be the oldest city in human civilization. Our own Mark Twain called it “twice as old as tradition”! Jérôme himself says he loves it because it seems to him to be the continuation of a life-long waking dream of his. It seems to be “in time and beyond time (at once)”. It seems to him to be the Past perennially flowing, like the sacred river Ganges, into the Present. In the Hindu religious tradition, Benares is seen to be a mystical rose born of the light of the sun and the waters of Ganges. Each morning, numberless devotees descend to the banks of the Ganges to wash away their sins, to adore the life-giving light of the sun – but also to die and be cremated!

Jérôme is struck by the enigmatic daily encounter here between life and death, between time and eternity, between darkness and light. But there is seemingly no despair here. Hinduism has always seen light as a force that has dominion, ultimately, over darkness. And that is what Jérôme Thirriot seeks to capture in both the faces and the apparently inert objects which he photographs in Benares: the triumph of light. With him, one is almost tempted to consider it a quasi-mystical calling. It came as no surprise to Jérôme the Dream-Beckoned when he learned, well after his first visit to Benares, that Benares was formely called KASAI, a name which means “shining with divine Light”.

Bertrand MATHIEUCharleville-MézièresAugust 24, 2006.

Table des Matières

PROLOGUE :

Ram Nam Satya hai, le regard de Vishnoupar Bertrand Mathieu

Alaknanda La petite ramasseuse de feuillesLa ronde du premier jour Le maître de lutteLe lutteurJay Ganga Maiki, JayMagie noireLe petit mendiantL’initiationLa fille du Gange L’icônePujaLe dormeurElleMrignayaniL’abandonLe colosse aux pieds d’argile Ram Nam Satya hai, le chant des âmes

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE :

Ram Nam Satya hai, the Glance of Vishnu by Bertrand Mathieu

Alaknanda The Little Leaf-GathererRondo of the First Day The Wrestling MasterThe WrestlerJay Ganga Maiki, JayBlack MagicThe Little BeggarThe InitiationDaughter of the Ganges The IconPujaThe SleeperSheMrignayaniGiving UpThe Colossus with Feet of Clay Ram Nam Satya hai, the Song of Souls

PROLOGUE :

Ram Nam Satya hai*, le regard de Vishnou

par Bertrand Mathieu

Elle n’est pas là entièrement seule.

Elle a des yeux qui le proclament.

Elle a des yeux qui sont une étrange noirceur, plasmique, naissante. Néanmoins son front émet de la lumière, une belle effluence de lumière. Les deux forment un unisson troublé, un mélange aussi silencieux que l’âme. Devant lequel la lumière du jour a un mouvement de recul !

Elle a l’air résolue.

Elle a l’air d’entendre, comme des réverbérations distantes des paysages indigents de son pays, une voix qui parle non pas de la fuite très loin de conditions temporelles intolérables mais vers une nouvelle lumière, un nouveau domaine de lumière. Elle sait, pourtant, que ceci n’est pas un voyage pour des pieds comme les siens. Regarde à l’intérieur de toi, la voix semble lui répéter.

Peut-être que toutes choses sont issues du feu ? Ou est-ce de l’eau ? Peut- être qu’elles ont bondi de l’Esprit, revêtant un feu avec un autre feu. Mais la nuit, et elle le sait parfaitement bien, cerne tous les feux. La lumière est son propre abîme.

Peut-être que ceci est un regard en aucune façon innocent mais plutôt celui d’un brave enfant qui regarde en travers d’un gouffre et qui le fixe avec sa propre détermination?

Elle a l’air de comprendre parfaitement qu’elle est moindre que la pluie. Elle est une fille fragile comme une feuille. Peut être que quand le vent soufflera et découvrira le voile caché de son re-gard, plus tard, personne ne sera là pour le voir.

Elle sera là entièrement seule.

Elle laisse les yeux de toutes ces autres filles regarder dans la direction opposée, dans les limita-

PROLOGUE :

Ram Nam Satya hai*, the Glance of Vishnu

by Bertrand Mathieu

She isn’t there entirely alone.

She has eyes that proclaim this.

She has eyes that are a strange, plasmic, nascent dark-ness. Yet her forehead emits light, a lovely effluence of light. The two form a troubled unison, a commin-gling which is as soundless as the soul. Before it, the daylight recoils!

She seems intent.

She seems to hear, like distant reverberations of her country’s indigent landscapes, a voice speaking not of flight away from intolerable temporal conditions but towards a new light, a new realm of light. She knows, though, that this is no journey for feet like hers. Look into yourself, the voice seems to be repeating.

Perhaps all things have issued from fire. Or is it from water? Perhaps they have sprung from Mind, cloth-ing one fire with another fire. But night, she knows perfectly well, closes in on every fire. Light is it own abyss.

Perhaps this is a gaze by no means innocent but rather that of a brave child looking across a gulf and fixing it with her own intentness.

She seems to understand that she is much less than the rain. She is a girl as fragile as a leaf. Perhaps when the wind blows and uncovers the hidden veil of her glance, later on, there will be no one there to see it.

She’ll be there entirely alone.

She lets the eyes of all those other girls gaze in the opposite direction, into the limitations of the real, up ahead – beyond the camera’s range.

She alone turns. She alone. And for a fleeting instant, we see the sun of Vishnu casting a glance at her.

tions du réel, là-devant – hors du champ visuel de l’appareil photo.

Elle seule se retourne. Elle seule. Et pour un court instant, on voit le soleil de Vishnou qui jette un coup d’œil sur elle.

* “Dieu existe, c’est la vérité.” __________________

Hardiwar, Garhwal Himalaya, novembre 2004.Photographie Jérôme Thirriot.

* “God exists, that’s the truth.”__________________

Hardiwar, Garhwal Himalaya. November 2004.Photograph Jérôme Thirriot.

Alaknanda

Alaknandasur ta riveje suis chair de nuagesur le fleuve du cielterre de cielciel de terredans ce temple d’après le délugepar la voix des dieuxse terre l’idole des flots furieux- cloches, sonnez haut !

__________________

Temple de Dhari Devi Kaliasur. Sources du Gange, Garhwal Himalaya , novembre 2004.

Alaknanda

Alaknandaon your shoreI am pulp of cloudon the stream of the skies –earth of sky,sky of earth –in this postdiluvial temple,where by edict of the godsthe idol of the raging torrent is impounded in earth. – bells, bells, bells, ring loud !

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Temple of Dhari Devi Kaliasur. Sources of the Gan-ges.Garhwal Himalaya , November 2004.

La petite ramasseuse de feuilles

Elle habite la très haute montagne,centre et origine du monde,où le dieu Shiva courba la nuquepour apaiser la rage des flotsde la déesse Ganga descendue sur terre.Elle habite le villageoù Shiva s’unit à Parvati,fille de l’Himalaya.

Au détour d’un virage,elle apparut dans la lumièrefiltrée par les grands arbres,ramassant avec sa sœurles feuilles tombées de l’automne.Je fis arrêter la voiture,et m’approchant d’elle,je la photographiaialors que son étrange regardme transperçait.

__________________

Village de Triyugi Narayan. Sources du Gange. Garhwal Himalaya, novembre 2004.

The Little Leaf-Gatherer

She lives on that high mountain,center and origin of the world ,where the god Shiva bent the back of his neckto appease the raging flood-tideof the goddess Ganga descended on earth.She inhabits the villagewhere Shiva was joined with Parvati,daughter of the Himalaya.

At the turn of the curve,she appeared amidst lightfiltered by huge trees,gathering with her sisterthe autumn’s fallen leaves.I had the car haltedand, easing up to her,I caught her in a photo while her outlandish glanceharrowed me.

__________________________

Village of Triyugi Narayan. Sources of the Ganges.Garhwal Himalaya, November 2004.

La ronde du premier jour

Au petit matinvibre le son de la conqueau souffle puissant d’un sadhoucélébrant le dieu Shiva.Plus tard, à la pointe du jour,vision du ballet tournoyant des oiseaux sur la barqueau bord du Gange.Danse primordiale,ronde du premier jour.Instant suspendu de l’aube,alors que s’élève l’astre solaireque l’on peut encore regarderdroit dans les yeux.

__________________

Bénarès, février 2002.

Rondo of the First Day

At the crack of dawn,there vibrates the sound of the conchfrom the potent breath of a sadhucelebrating the god Shiva.Later on, as the day breaks,vision of the whirling balletof the birds above the boaton the bank of the Ganges.Primeval dance,rondo of the first day.Instant suspended there at dawn, while the solar orb ascends –a sun we’re able stillto look straight in the eye.

__________________

Benares, February 2002.

Le maître de lutte

Je suis le maître du gymnase sacré.Ici, je vis, je prie, je dors.Je suis le maître qui enseigne la lutteet apprend la vie.Adorateur du dieu Vishnouet du dieu singe Hanuman,par mon être et ma présence,jour après jour,nuit après nuit,- corps et âme - ,je suis celui qui transmet la Connaissance.Maître de la sagesse,j’entretiens le feu de la vie.

__________________

Bénarès, novembre 2004.

The Wrestling Master

I am the master of the sacred gymnasium.Here I live, I pray, I sleep.I am the master who teaches wrestlingand learns how to live.Worshipper of the god Vishnuand of the monkey god Hanuman,by my being and my presence,day after day,night after night –body and soul –I am he who transmits knowledge.Master of wisdom,I sustain the fire of life.

__________________

Benares, November 2004.

Le lutteur

« Moi, je suis Hanuman aux bras infatigables.Ma force n’a d’égale qu’elle-même ! » *

Chaque matin depuis mon enfanceje viens entraîner mon corps,forger mon esprit,recevoir l’enseignement de mon maître de con-science et de lutte.Hanuman, le dieu singe est mon modèle.

Que sa force soit miennelorsque j’affronterai les champions de l’arène.Contenant le souffle dans ma poitrine,pieds fermement appuyés sur le sol,étirant mon buste et mes bras,je suis prêt à me lancerdans le ciel.

* Ramayana__________________


The Wrestler

« Myself, I am Hanuman of the indefatigable arms.My strength has no equal but itself ! » *

Every morning since my childhood,I come to train my body,to forge my spirit,to receive instruction from my master of knowledge and wrestling.Hanuman, the monkey god, is my model.

May his strength be minewhen I face the champions of the arena.Holding my breath in my thorax,feet firmly planted on the ground,stretching my chest and my arms,I am ready to hurl myselfto high heaven.

* Ramayana__________________


Jay Ganga Maiki, Jay“Gloire à notre mère Ganga”

Retour à Bénarèsdans mon fief d’Asi Ghatoù le sable du fleuverecouvre les marchesde la plus vieille ville du monde.En fin d’après-midi, je descends vers le fleuve.Me croise Gandhi réincarné.Porteur de l’eau sacrée,il se dirige vers son templepour adorer les dieux tout puissantset conjurer ses démons intérieurs.

__________________


Jay Ganga Maiki, Jay“Glory to our Mother Ganges”

Return to Benaresto my fiefdom of Asi Ghatwhere the sands of the rivercover up the stone stepsof the oldest city in the world.At afternoon’s end, as I go down towards the river,I come across Gandhi reincarnate.Carrying the consecrated water,he advances towards his templeto adore the all-powerful godsand conjure with his inner demons.

__________________


Magie noire

Au pied des marchessur le Gangeun homme à l’antique beauté,joyeux et menaçant,le rire démoniaque,parle à haute voix avec les dieux.Kâli la Noire, déesse dévorante et grimaçante,ornée de son collier de têtes décapitéessemble le posséder.Peut-être a-t-il cru boireà la coupe d’immortalité,ayant vendu son âme au diable,et mangé la cervelle d’un cadavresur le lit de crémation.

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Black Magic

At the bottom of the stepson the Gangesa man of pristine beauty,joyful as well as threatening,laughing demonically,speaks out loud to the gods.Kali the Dark One,the ravenous and grimacing goddess,adorned with her crown of decapitated heads,seems to have him in her power.Perhaps he believes he’s sippedfrom the vial of immortality –having sold his soul to the devil,having eaten the brain of a cadaveron the litter of cremation.

__________________


Le petit mendiant

C’est jour de grande fête.A l’aurore baignée de brumeglisse la foulevers le grand fleuve sacré qui la purifiera.

Sur le chemin, un petit mendiant,tête rasée, tend la mainpour recevoir dans son écuellele riz qui nourrira sa famille.C’était il y a mille ans, cent ans, dix ans…

– maintenant!

__________________


The Little Beggar-Boy

Today is a great feast day.In a dawn bathed in haziness,the crowd glidestowards the great sacred river that will purify it.

In the road, a little beggar,his head shaved, puts out his handto obtain in his mess-tinthe rice that will feed his family.This was a thousand years ago, a hundred years, a decade...

– right now!

__________________


L’initiation

Il fait froid.L’eau est glacée… mais sacrée.Y accéder, c’est accomplir ma destinée,perpétuer la tradition.Il fait froid,je suis presque nue,la rive est pentue,glissante du limon de glaise humide.Mes deux grandes sœursme tiennent par la main,et dans le Gangeje vais me fondreavant que le soleilait percé la brume.

__________________


The Initiation

It’s cold.The water is icy– but sacred.By reaching it, I accomplishmy destiny.I perpetuate tradition.It’s cold, I’m almost naked,the shore is steep,slippery with the siltof murky clay.My two older sisterstake me by the hand,and into the GangesI will merge myselfbefore the sunhas pierced the haze.

__________________


La fille du Gange

Elle surgit de l’onde.C’est une apparition.Déesse et fille du Gange,chacun de ses gestesest grâce absolue.Elle frôle le limon glissant,presqu’en déséquilibre.Ses bras sont des ailes.Funambule sur un fil invisible,ondoyante,elle danse.Elle a vingt ans,elle a mille ans.Elle est l’éternelle beauté.

__________________


Daughter of the Ganges

Emerging from the waters – this sudden apparition.Goddess and daughter of the Ganges,each of her movements is grace absolute!She lightly skims the slippery silt,not quite off balance – her arms are wings.Tightrope-walker on an invisible wire,lightly swaying – she dances.She’s twenty years old.She’s a hundred.She’s beauty everlasting.

__________________


L’icône

C’est une icône,Longs cils courbes,nuque légèrement fléchie,profil,pommette, joue… douceurs.La corolle de sa robe blanchesouligne la délicatesseet la grâce de ses gestes.Poésie de sa présence.Méticuleusement,elle prépare les offrandes.A la nuit tombée,leurs flammes se mêlerontaux eaux du Gangeque les pèlerinsdoucement effleureront.

__________________


The Icon

She’s an icon.Long curving eyelashes,nape of neck slightly flexed,in profile,cheekbone, cheek... so ingratiating!The corolla of her white dressunderscores the delicacyand the grace of her gestures.A presence of sheer poetry.She’s preparing with meticulous caresome offerings.When night falls,their flames will mingle with the waters of the Gangesthat the pilgrimswill dimly brush against.

__________________


Puja

Promenade sur les Ghatssous la pleine lune.Assises sur les marches,tout près du fleuve,deux fillettes préparent la pujapour célébrer les dieux.Dans la fissure d’une margelle de pierre,elles ont piqué un bâton d’encenset allumé la mèche enrobée de beurremoulé dans une minuscule coupe de terre cuite,qu’elles posent sur une soucoupe de feuilles sèches,modelée à la main, sur laquelle reposeun œillet orange et charnu.

Alors elles récitent les mantraset déposent sur le Gangel’offrande lumineusequi vacille au fil de l’eauet emporte leurs vœuxles plus secrets.

__________________


Puja

This evening, a stroll on the ghats under the full moon.Sitting on the steps quite near the river, two little girls are preparing puja to do homage to the gods.In the fissure of a stone coping, they’ve placed a stick of incense and lit up the wick coated with butter,then molded the minuscule terracotta cupwhere they’ve placed some dry leaves on a saucer fashioned by handon which lies a carnation, plump and orange.

Then only do they recite the mantras and set down on the Gangesthe luminous offering which undulates downstreamand bears away their most secret wishes.

__________________


Le dormeur

Toute la nuit,les chants sacrés ont retentisous la tente au bord du Gangeoù riches et pauvres se sont rassemblés.Au paroxysme de la fête,alors que le crépitement des tamboursexalte la voix du maître de chant,un vieux mendiant est saisi par la transe.Il se coiffe de l’étoffe qui couvre ses épauleset entre dans la danse qui le transcende.Soudain, il sort un billet de cinquante roupies- une fortune pour lui- et le dépose au pied du chanteur.Ce geste de grande noblesse me bouleverse.Une jolie mendiante qui a perdu un bras danse avec luide toute la fibre de son être.Dans la foule, les enfants, nombreux, vibrent à l’unisson.

Au lever du jour, la fête bat toujours son plein.Et l’un d’entre eux s’est endormi,replié sur lui-même,à demi enfoui dans les draps du solqui lui font un lit de fortune.

__________________

Haridwar, Garhwal Himalaya, novembre 2004.

The Sleeper

All night long, the sacred chants have resonated from the tent on the banks of the Ganges, where rich and poor have foregathered. At the frenzied peak of the festivities, as the pitter-pattering of the drums exalts the voice of the master of the chants, an aged beggar is seized by a trance. He covers his head with the cloth around his shoulders and hurls himself into a self-tran-scending dance.Suddenly, he pulls out a fifty-rupee bill – a real for-tune for him – and places it at the feet of the chanter. I’m astounded by the utter nobility of his gesture. A lovely beggar-woman who has lost an arm joins him, with every fiber of her being, in his dance. In the crowd, great numbers of children pulsate in unison. At daybreak, with the festivities still in full swing, one of these kids (withdrawn into himself) has fallen asleep, half-buried in some cloth on the ground which serves him as a makeshift bed.

__________________

Haridwar, Garhwal Himalaya, November 2004.

Elle

Elle se campe,main sur la hancheet me défie du regard.Elle est mendiantemais elle est libre.Et ses yeux me foudroient.Reine, elle est.

__________________


She

She plants herself there –one hand on her hip,a look utterly defiant.She’s beggingbut she’s a free beingand her eyes obliterate me.A Queen – that’s what !

__________________


Mrignayani

Princesse effrontée,dans ta robe de bal déchirée,tu es un pied de nez à la terre entière.Fragile et désinvolte,gauche et gracieuse,impériale et va-nu-pieds,esprit libre et beauté farouche,tu es de la graine de Mrignayani *.

*Mrignayani – œil de biche – (XVème siècle), célèbre bouvière à la voix d’or qui subjugua le raja Man Singh, lorsqu’elle arrêta d’un geste de la main le combat de deux grands buffles qui venaient de le faire rouler à terre après que son cheval se fut cabré de frayeur.__________________

Orchha, novembre 2004.

Mrignayani

Impudent princess in your raggedy dancehall gown,you thumb your nose at the whole wide world.Offhand and fragile, graceful and ungainly,imperious and urchin-like, free spirit and skittish beauty, you are of the seed of Mrignayani*.

* Mrignayani – doe-eyed – (15th century), the cow-herd with the golden voice who, with a simple wave of her hand, pacified two huge buffaloes locked in combat under the eyes of the raja Man Singh as his horse, rearing up in terror, pitched him to the ground.__________________

Orchha, November 2004.

L’abandon

Tu es l’adorable petite brindilleballottée au gré des flotsdu long pèlerinagevers les sources du Gange.

Alors que je te croise,tu dors profondémentsur l’épaule de ton père.

Et dans l’agitation de la rue,je saisis un instant d’éternité.

__________________


Giving Up

You’re the adorable little twigtossed about at the whim of the waterson the tedious pilgrimagetowards the sources of the Ganges.

As I pass you by,you’re soundly sleepingon your father’s shoulder.

And in the hubbub of the street,I snap a bit of eternity.

__________________


Le colosse aux pieds d’argile

C’est un symbole de Bénarès.Le grand temple de pierre ciseléequi lentement se coucheau pied des Ghats,sur la rive sableuse du fleuvesapée par des décennies de crues.Contre son flanc une barque renverséeexpose son ventre goudronnésoutenu par des étaies de bambou.Equilibre fragiledu colosse aux pieds d’argileet de la barque de papier!

__________________


The Colossus with Feet of Clay

It’s one of Benares’ symbols.The great temple of chiseled stonethat’s slowly heeling overat the foot of the Gathson the sandy shore of the river,undermined by decades of flooding.Against its flank, an upturned boatexposes its tarry bellyheld up by bamboo props.Delicate equilibrium –a colossus with feet of clayand a paper boat!

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Ram Nam Satya hai, le chant des âmes

En apesanteursept rames blanchessous la pleine lunediscutent à bâtons rompusde l’air du temps.Ailes du Grand Moulinbattant, brassant, caressantles flots célestes du fleuvedescendu sur terrepour sauver l’humanitési longtemps privéedu souffle divin.

Ram Nam Satya hai...“Dieu existe, c’est la vérité.”

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Ram Nam Satya hai, the Song of Souls

In a state of weightlessness,seven white oarsunder the full moondiscussing this, that, and the otherin a desultory fashion.Wings of the great Windmillswinging, swaying, strokingthe celestial waters of the river which hascome down upon earthto save a humankindso long deprivedof the divine afflatus.

Ram Nam Satya hai...“God exists, that’s the truth.”

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