Who once said that words fly away and that writings remain
And who will say that this story was just a parable
Of two poets with too hasty a pen
From the mountains of the East it crosses the rivers of the great West
Then it snakes and persists until it melts into the asphalt

It's the story of a tale that crosses the world
As you turn the pages of your atlas
I was told it was told by a very old guy, I'm not talking about Father Fouras
But an old respected man with a voice as deep as the wrinkles on his face
I'm talking about his story that for decades has crossed more than one landscape

It's the story of a world tour, a race around the globe
A moment out of space-time where seconds are counted in millennia
It's not a tale but a half-paranormal phenomenon poem
Half-free speech that walks around, of course it happens orally

It's the story of a fantastic journey in which more than one element participated
Who, during a classic existence, do not necessarily cross paths
This somewhat magical journey, like everyone else you've heard about it
I knew it one full moon night in front of a big starry sky

Word from the end of the world
Word from the end of the world

I really believe it was the wind that came to whisper it to me
And it had the effect of a sedative because to tell the truth it disturbed me
This story, I would give everything to know its exact origin
You know what Rouda we're going to go back to its source
Each on his own side, such is our pact
Ok Grand Corps Malade I wish you a planetary walk
I'll let you give the starting signal and the choice in the hemisphere
You will have to search in two continents
Me three, if necessary we meet in 10 years
But as I have more lands than you, you will also have to deal with the bottom of the oceans
Good trip, may the best win

I started to observe the most classic territories
The blackboard of faculties with very academic speeches
I heard the cries of a speech that falls asleep in soporific debates
Conferences, art galleries and even guided tours
In the heart of historic districts

I started my quest by questioning my neighbor
He is so old that he is necessarily linked to a part of this story
He advised me to go and investigate in a small mountain village
But the people I met there had strangely lost their memory

On my itinerary I had noted some antique dealers
All I found were words in old French
And words full of dust
I met two or three hairdressers and their legendary stories
At the root I understood everything about the theory of gravity
So I took some height I made quite a few round trips
I was quick or full of slowness but the duration of my journey
Spreads over the Maghreb and its storytellers to the taverns of Singapore
From nomadic tribes of speakers to the temples of Kuala Lumpur
I saw words of absence words left on a door and even words of love
I sometimes took the wrong direction
And the more I got to know the new troubadours

I understood that what I was looking for had something secret
And that this story was fragile like a word written in chalk
I was scrutinizing the night in dark alleys with the smell of piss
When an old tramp finally put me on a good track
He told me to go and question a scientist, I agreed
But this one didn't teach me anything, I just revised Pythagoras' theorem
So I went to see the greatest philosophers of the continent
But they got me drunk, I still preferred my old incontinent neighbor
I met a lot of people, from Reykjavik to Beijing
Groups of young rappers to old African griots but in vain

And you?
Nothing

I saw tender words, I saw words of excuse, I saw swear words
I saw words to take words that accuse and even too many words
I saw passing words, I saw vexing words
I saw cutting words like a stake
I saw words that immobilize words without a mobile and even hollow words
I saw Mohammeds, I saw Mauricettes
I especially saw that I had made this trip for nothing
I saw bad words, I saw good times
And that finally the source was not so far

This story, it's yours, it's mine, it's very real
It's the story of the universal language, may it be eternal
I don't know about you Grand Corps Malade but our end of text
Seems a bit too solemn to me
That's true Rouda but the important thing is maybe just that it's beautiful
They might find it stupid, even more stupid than two poets
But I still want to say it, long live free speech
In any case what is clear
Is that this story lives in all our heads
And that we will continue to live it
Until the very last pages of our own book
Good trip, may the best win

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