La maison des champs

A poem will outlast an empire. Such is the strength of the Human Spirit. It is the cadential repository for remembering past generations.
The prerogatives granted in this century to Science must surely be equalled in the edifying arts of Poetry and Prose.
Poetry is a child of Liberty and more a child of Sorrow than of Joy.  It is to be found in Sunlight and in Silence, at Daybreak and in the Night.  Poetry restores a man’s future. It pacifies and elates. It is divine in its essence. It is Confidence, it is Prayer.
It is all encompassing. It is Liturgy, it is the Morning Star. It is Mysticism and a House of Gold. It is the Ark of the Covenant. It is the consolation of afflictions and the saviour of sinners.
There are times where, without Poetry, all consolation and hope are lost; when Nature herself goes unheard. Yet, from the depths of the abyss we call and are called upon by the unfathomable power of Poetry over all consciousness.
Innovation and Creativity stem from it. From the fullness with which it fills a man’s heart, the afflicted like the intuitive are propelled onward.
Today, like Liberty itself, Poetry often has to carry the burdens of Tyranny. As equally painful as the awesomeness of this new century, Poetry is chained like Andromeda, defenceless and exposed to the fury of monsters.
It is enough to talk about Poetry for it to be heard. It is enough to say its name to conjure warmth and the quickening of the blood.
Those who govern without horizons or joyfulness have no knowledge of its blessing. Where Poetry prospers problems and woes diminish and those alive bear less resemblance to the dead.

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