There Will Be No Love Dying Here:

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“The blessing of the morning light to you. May it find you even in your invisible appearances. May you be seen to have risen from some other place you know and have known in the darkness and that carries all you need. May you see what is hidden in you as a place of hospitality and shadowed shelter; may what is hidden in you become your gift to give. May you hold that shadow to the light, and the silence of that shelter to the word of the light. May you join every previous disappearance with this new appearance, this new morning, this being seen again, new and newly alive.”

—David Whyte
The Blessing Of The Morning Light

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Blessing for sound.

“I thank you for the smallest sound. For the way my ears open even before my eyes, as if to remember the way everything began with an original, vibrant, note. And I thank you for this everyday original music, always being rehearsed, always being played, always being remembered as something new and arriving. A tram line below in the city street, gull cries, or a ship’s horn in the distant harbour, so that in waking I hear voices, even when there is no voice. So that in waking, I hear voices even where there is no voice, and invitations where there is no invitation, so that I can wake with you by the ocean in summer or in the deepest, seemingly quietest winter and be with you, so that I can hear you, even with my eyes closed, even with my heart closed, even before I fully wake.”

Blessing for the light.

“I thank you, light, again, for helping me to find the outline of my daughter’s face. I thank you, light, for the subtle way your merest touch gives shape to such things I could only learn to love through your delicate instruction. And I thank you this morning, waking again, most intimately and secretly for your visible invisibility, the way you make me look at the face of the world so that everything becomes an eye to everything else, and so that, strangely, I also see myself being seen, so that I can be born again in that sight, so that I can have this one other way, along with every other way, to know that I am here.”

David Whyte | Blessings
Blessing For Sound
Blessing For Light
https://davidwhyte.com/

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That boy was hungry
That boy was hungry
His mother gave him Dog Salmon
Only the head
It was not enough
And he carried it hungry
to the river’s mouth
He fell down hungry
Salt water came from his eyes
He turned over and over
He turned into it

And that boy was swimming
under the water
His round eyes open
He could not close them
He was breathing the river
through his mouth
He saw stones
Shimmering under him
Now he was Salmon Boy

He saw the Salmon People waiting
They said, “This water
Is our wind
We are tired of swimming
against the wind
Come to the deep
calm valley of the sea
We are hungry too
We must find the Herring People”
And they turned their blue-green tails
And Salmon Boy followed

He saw Shell-Walking-Backward
Woman-Who-Is-Half-Stone
He heard the long
high howling of Wolf Whale
the whistling of Sea Snake
Seal Woman’s laughter
Saw Loon Mother flying
Through branches of seaweed
Felt Changer turn over
far down in his sleep

He followed to the edge of the sky
to where the sky opens and closes
to where the Moon
opens and closes forever
And the Herring People brought
feasts of eggs
As many as stars
and Salmon Boy ate the stars
As if he flew among them
saying Hungry! Hungry!

But the Post of Heaven shook
and the rain fell
Like pieces of Moon
and the Salmon People swam
Tasting sweet, saltless wind
under the water
Breathing the river
Again with their mouths
And Salmon Boy followed
full-bellied
not afraid

Salmon Boy swam fastest of all
He leaped out of the water
And slapped his blue-green silvery tail
crying, Eyo! Eyo!
I jump! again and again
Oh, he was Salmon Boy!
He could see everything!
He could breathe everything!
He could swim everything!
And then his father speared him

He lay on the dry riverbank
with his round eyes open
Saying nothing while his father
emptied his belly
He said nothing when his mother
opened him up wide
To dry in the sun
Oh he was full of the sun
All day he dried on sticks
staring upriver

And Salmon Boy followed
full-bellied
not afraid
He leaped out of the water
And slapped his blue-green silvery tail
crying, Eyo!
I jump! again and again.
Oh, he was Salmon Boy!
He could see everything!
He could breathe everything!
He could swim everything!
And then his father speared him

He lay on the dry riverbank
with his round eyes open
Saying nothing while his father
opened his belly
He said nothing when his mother
opened him up wide
To dry in the sun
Oh he was full of the sun
All day he dried on sticks
staring upriver

—David Wagoner
Salmon Boy (1999)

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When my father worked on
the Hubble Telescope, he said
They operated like surgeons:
scrubbed and sheathed
In papery green, the room a clean cold,
and bright white.

He’d read Larry Niven at home,
and drink scotch on the rocks,
His eyes exhausted and pink.
These were the Reagan years,
When we lived with our finger on
The Button and struggled

To view our enemies as children.
My father spent whole seasons
Bowing before the oracle-eye,
hungry for what it would find.
His face lit-up whenever anyone asked,
and his arms would rise

As if he were weightless,
perfectly at ease in the never-ending
Night of space. On the ground,
we tied postcards to balloons
For peace. Prince Charles married Lady Di.
Rock Hudson died.

We learned new words for things.
The decade changed.

The first few pictures came back blurred,
and I felt ashamed
For all the cheerful engineers,
my father and his tribe. The second time,
The optics jibed.
We saw to the edge of all there is—

So brutal and alive it seemed
to comprehend us
back.

—Tracy K Smith, 22nd Poet Laureate
From: My God It’s Full Of Stars

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Every time I was in L.A.
I was with my ex-girlfriend
Every time you called, I told you
“Baby, I’m working”
I was out doing my dirt
Wasn’t thinking ’bout you getting hurt
I was hand-in-hand in the Beverly Center
Like, man
Not giving a damn who sees me

So gone, so wrong
I was acting like I didn’t have
You sitting at home
Thinking about me
Being the good girl that you are

But you probably believed
You got a good man
A man that never would do the things
I’m about to tell you I’ve done
Brace yourself, it ain’t good
But it would be even worse if
You heard this from somebody else

Just when I thought
I said all I could say
My chick on the side said
She got one on the way
These are my confessions
Man I’m thrown and I
Don’t know what to do
I guess I gotta give Part 2
Of my confessions

If I’m gonna tell it
Then I gotta tell it all
I damn near cried when
I got that phone call
I’m so throwed
And I don’t know what to do
But to give you Part 2
Of my confessions

Now this gon’ be the hardest thing
I think I ever had to do
Got me talkin’ to myself askin’
How I’m gon’ tell her
‘Bout that chick on Part 1 I told ya’ll
I was creepin’ with, creepin’ with
She says she’s 3 months pregnant
And she’s keepin’ it

The first thing that came to mind was you
And the second thing was how
Do I know if it’s mine and is it true
Third thing was me wishin’ that I
Never did what I did
How I ain’t ready for no kid
And bye bye to my relationship

Just when I thought
I said all I could say
My chick on the side said
She got one on the way
These are my confessions
Man I’m thrown and I
Don’t know what to do
I guess I gotta give Part 2
Of my confessions

If I’m gonna tell it
Then I gotta tell it all
Damn near cried when
I got that phone call
I’m so throwed
And I don’t know what to do
But to give you Part 2
Of my confessions

Sittin’ here stuck on stupid
Tryin’a figure out
When, what, and how
I’mma let this come out of my mouth
Said it ain’t gon’be easy
But I need to stop thinkin’, contemplatin’
Be a man and get it over with

I’m ridin’ in my whip
Racin’ to her place
Talkin’ to myself
Preparin’ to tell her to her face

She opened up the door
And didn’t want to come near me
I said “one second baby please hear me”
These are my confessions
Just when I thought
I said all I could say
My chick on the side said
She got one on the way
These are my confessions

Man I’m thrown and I
Don’t know what to do
I guess I gotta give you Part 2
Of my confessions
If I’m gonna tell it
Then I gotta tell it all
Damn near cried when
I got that phone call
I’m so throwed
And I don’t know what to do
But to give you Part 2
Of my confessions

—Usher—
Confessions II (From 15’55”)

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She was walking in the street
Looked up and noticed
He was nameless
He was homeless
She asked him his name
And told him what hers was
He gave her a story ’bout life

With a glint in his eye
And a corner of a smile
One conversation, a simple moment
The things that change us, if we notice
When we look up, sometimes

They said I would never make it
But I was built to break the mould
The only dream that I’ve been chasing
Is my own

So I sing a song for the hustlers
Trading at the bus stop
Single mothers
Waiting on a check to come
Young teachers
Student doctors
Sons on the front line
Knowing they don’t get to run

This goes out to the underdog
Keep on keeping at what you love
You’ll find that someday soon enough
You will rise up, rise up!

She’s riding in a taxi
Back to the kitchen
Talking to the driver
‘Bout his wife and his children
On the run from a country
Where they put you in prison
For being a woman
And speaking your mind

And she looked in his eyes
In the mirror and he smiled
One conversation, a single moment
The things that change us if we notice
When we look up sometimes

They said I would never make it
But I was built to break the mould
The only dream that I’ve been chasing
Is my own

So I sing a song for the hustlers
Trading at the bus stop
Single mothers
Waiting on a check to come
Young teachers
Student doctors
Sons on the front line
Knowing they don’t get to run

This goes out to the underdog
Keep on keeping at what you love
You’ll find that someday soon enough
You will rise up, rise up!

I sing a song for the hustlers
Trading at the bus stop
Single mothers
Waiting on a check to come
Young teachers
Student doctors
Sons on the front line
Knowing they don’t get to run

This goes out to the underdog
Keep on keeping at what you love
You’ll find that someday soon enough
You will rise up, rise up!

—Alicia Keys—
Underdog (From 14’18”)

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She’s darker
than a child’s deepest sleep
And into his mind she creeps
In this world of lies and confusion
She’s the only
thing not clouded by illusions
The pain of everyday life
Is hidden in the blackness of our skin
He searches to find peace within
He finds love in the blackness of her skin

Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love
Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love

Back to the ghetto
Serenaded by the violence
outside my window
Project aristocrats gather realizing
That our hearts and minds
are shackled by the lies
But he finds peace when
he looks into her eyes
Her blackness is fine
The blackness of her skin
the blackness of her mind

Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love
Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love

Straight from the war
Right smack dab in the middle of
Poverty insecurity no one’s gonna save me
The young black man lays his head
on her young black thighs
So that the child in her womb can
hear the tears
That the black man cries

Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love
Step, step into
Step into the projects where I found love

I’m just walkin’
Tryin’ to get home
I ain’t do nothin’
Just leave me alone

Lord give me wings to fly
Before they shoot me down
And I die

Don’t let them shoot me down
And I die
Whoa, whoa, put down your gun
And take your hands off me
Whoa, whoa, put down your gun
And take your hands off me

Officer, officer, officer
I know you’re afraid like me
But look at my hands
Please don’t shoot me

Whoa, whoa, put down your gun
And take your hands off me
Whoa, whoa, put down your gun
And take your hands off me

—Meshell Ndegeocello
Step Into The Projects (1999)
Price Of The Ticket (2024)

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Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to
deny the intimacy of your surroundings.
Surely, even you, at times, have felt
the grand array; the swelling presence,
and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you courage.
Alertness is the hidden
discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness
and ease into the conversation.
The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink,
the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness
and seen the good in you at last.
All the birds and creatures of the world
are unutterably themselves.
Everything, everything, everything
is waiting for you.

—David Whyte
Everything Is Waiting For You

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There is a faith in loving fiercely
the one who is rightfully yours
especially if you have
waited years and especially
if you never believed
you could deserve this
loved and beckoning hand
held out to you this way

I am thinking of faith now
and the testaments of loneliness
and what we feel we are
worthy of in this world

Years ago in the Hebrides
I remember an old man
who walked everyday
on the grey stones
to the shore of baying seals

who would press his hat
to his chest
and say his prayers
to the turbulent Jesus
hidden in the water

and I think of the story
of the storm and everyone
waking and seeing
the distant
yet familiar figure
far across the water
calling to them

and how we are all
waiting for that
abrupt waking
and that calling
and that moment
we have to say yes

except it will
not come so grandly
so biblically
but more subtly
and intimately in the face
of the one you know
you have to love

so that when we
finally step out of the boat
towards them
we find
everything holds
us, and everything sustains
our courage, and if you wanted
to drown you could
but you don’t

because after all the struggle
and all these years
you simply don’t want to anymore
you’ve simply had enough
of drowning
and you want to live and you
want to love and you will
walk across any territory
however dark
and however disturbing
to take the
one hand you know
belongs in yours

—David Whyte
The Truelove (From 47’34”)

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The sound of a bell
Still reverberating
or a blackbird calling
from a corner of the field
asking you to wake
into this life
or inviting you deeper
into the one that waits

Either way
takes courage
either way wants you
to be become nothing
but that self that
is no self at all
wants you to walk
to the place
where you find
you already know
you have to give
every last thing
away

The approach
that is also
the meeting
itself
without any
meeting
at all

That radiance
you have always
carried with you
as you walk
both alone
and completely
accompanied
in friendship
by every corner
of the world
crying
Allelujah

—David Whyte
The Bell And The Blackbird (From 15’17”)

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“The ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the self nor of the other: the ultimate touchstone of friendship is witness, the privilege of having been seen by someone and the equal privilege of being granted the sight of the essence of another, to have walked with them and to have believed in them, and sometimes just to have accompanied them for however brief a span, on a journey impossible to accomplish alone.”

—David Whyte
Friendship (From 18’34”)

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“Destiny always has a possessor, as in my destiny or your destiny or her destiny, it gives a sense of something we cannot avoid or something waiting for us, it is a word of storybook or mythic dimension. Destiny is hardly used in everyday conversation; it is a word that invites belief or disbelief: we reject the ordering of events by some fated, unseen force or we agree that there seems to be a greater hand than our own, working at the edges of even the most average life.  But speaking of destiny not only grants us a sense of our own possibilities but gives us an intimation of our flaws, we sense, along with Shakespeare, that what is unresolved or unspoken in a human character might overwhelm the better parts of ourselves. When we choose between these two poles, of mythic triumph or fated failure, we may miss the everyday conversational essence of destiny: our future influenced by the very way we hold the conversation of life itself; never mind any actions we might take or neglect to take. Two people, simply by looking at the future in radically different ways, have completely different futures from one another awaiting them no matter their immediate course of action. Even the same course of action, coming from a different way of shaping the conversation will result in a different outcome. We are shaped by our shaping of the world and are shaped again in turn. The way we face the world alters the face that we see in that world. Strangely, every person always lives out their destiny no matter what they do, according to the way they shape the conversation, but that destiny may be lived out on the level of consummation or of complete frustration, through experiencing a homecoming or a distant sense of constant exile, or more likely some gradation along the spectrum that lies between. It is still our destiny, our life, but the sense of satisfaction involved and the possibility of fulfilling its promise may depend more upon a brave participation, a willingness to hazard ourselves in a very difficult world, a certain form of wild generosity with our gifts; a familiarity with our own depth, our own discovered, surprising breadth and always, a long practiced and robust vulnerability equal to what any future may offer. Our destiny is fated not only by great powers beyond our beckoning horizon but by the very way we shape and hold the everyday conversations of a familiar life.”

—David Whyte
Destiny (From 11’59”)

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There’s a spirit
Deep down inside
Longing to be set free

The spirit of love
The spirit of good music
The spirit of peace
The spirit of freedom
Longing to be set free

Well what I want you to do tonight
My good people
I want you to clap your hands
Clap your hands
To the rhythm of your heart
Always on time
To the rhythm of your heart

Un-reroute the river
And let the dammed water be
There’s some people
Down the way that’s thirsty
Let the liquid spirit free

The folk are thirsty
Cause of man’s unnatural hand
Watch what happens
When the people catch wind
When the water hits
The banks of that hard dry land
Clap your hands now
C’mon clap your hands now

Get ready for the wave
It might strike like the final flood
The people haven’t drank in so long
The water won’t even make mud

After it comes
It might come with a steady flow
Grab the roots of the tree
Down by the river
Fill your cup when your spirit’s low

Dip down
Take a drink
And fill your water tank

Un-reroute the river
And let the dammed water be
There’s some people
Down the way that’s thirsty
Let the liquid spirit free

The folk are thirsty
Because of man’s unnatural hand
Watch what happens
When the people catch wind
Of the water hitting
Banks of hard dry land

Wade in the water
Wade in the water, children

God’s gonna trouble land

Gregory Porter| Liquid Spirit



There will be no love that’s dying here
The bird that flew in through my window
Simply lost his way
He broke his wing I helped him heal
Then he flew away

Well the death of love is everywhere
But I won’t let it be
There will be no love dying here for me

There will be no love that’s dying here
The mirror that fell from the wall
Was raggedy that’s all
Well it rest upon a rusty nail
Before it made its fall
Well the bones of love are everywhere
But I won’t let it be
There will be no love
That’s dying here for me

There will be no love dying here
Four flowers in my Aegean (Asian?) vase
There’s not a sign were dead
I paid for three and the sweet old lady
Gave me four instead
There’s some doubt that is out
About this love
But I wont let it be
There will be no love
That’s dying here for me

There’s trouble all over the land
But you can take my hand
Keep this message in your heart
Let it radiate wherever you go
In the face of a broken heart
In the face of war
And there’s hungry children out there

Gregory Porter | No Love Dying

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If the night turned cold
And the stars looked down
And you hug yourself
On the cold, cold ground
You wake the morning
In a stranger’s coat
No-one would you see
You ask yourself, ‘Who’d watch for me?’
My only friend, who could it be?
It’s hard to say it
I hate to say it
But it’s probably me

When your belly is empty
The hunger so real
You’re too proud to beg
You’re too dumb to steal
You search the city
For your only friend
No-one would you see
You ask yourself, ‘Who could it be?’
A solitary voice speaking out set me free
I hate to say it
I hate to say it
But it’s probably me

You’re not the easiest
Person I ever got to know
But it’s hard for us both
To let our feelings show
Some would say
I should let you go your way
You’ll only make me cry
But if there’s one guy
Just one guy who would
Lay down his life for you and die
I had to say it
It’s hard to say it
But it’s probably me

When the world’s gone crazy
And it makes no sense
There’s only
One voice that comes to your defence
The jury’s out
And your eyes search the room
The only friendly face is all you need to see
If there’s just one guy
Just one guy who would
Lay down his life for you and die
It’s hard to say it
It’s hard to say it
But it’s probably me

It’s hard to say it
It’s hard to say it
It’s probably me
It’s hard to say it
It’s hard to say it
But it’s probably me

I will lay down my life
I will lay down my life for you
It’s hard to say it
It’s hard to say it
…

It’s Probably Me
Sting, Michael Kamen and Eric Clapton

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Be good
Is her name
And I sing
My lion’s song
And brush my mane

She would if she could
So she pulled my lion’s tail
And caused me pain
She said lions are made for cages
Just to look at in delight
You dare not let ’em walk around
’cause they might just bite

She knows
She does
When she dances around my cage
And says her name
Be good
Be good

Be good
Is her name
I trim my lion’s claws and for her
Well I cut my mane
And I would
Well if only I could
But be good
Treats me the same

She said lions are made for cages
Just to look at in delight
Well you dare not let ’em walk around
’cause they might just bite

Does she know what she does
When she dances around my cage?
…
Be good
Is her name
Sing my lion’s song
And I brush my mane

And she would
And you know that she could
So she just pulled my lion’s tail
And caused me pain
She said lions are made for cages
Just to look at in delight
Well you dare not let ’em walk around
’cause they might just bite

Does she know
Does she know what she does
When she dances around my cage?

Be good
Is her name
I trim my lion’s claws and for her
I cut my mane
And I would
And if only I could
But be good
Treats me the same

She said lions are made for cages
Just to look at in delight
Well you dare not let ’em walk around
’cause they might just bite

Does she know what she does
When she dances
When she dances around my cage?
Be good
Be good
Be good
..

—Gregory Porter
Be Good

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“The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.”

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Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

—David Wagoner
Lost (1999)

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More on the conversational nature of reality and David Whyte at The On Being Project
Vulnerability | David Whyte | On Being (12 December 2016)
Sweet Darkness | David Whyte | On Being (12 December 2016)

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the etcetera prayer

from the all-night putt-putt range on the outskirts to the mammas dream instant pavlova drive-in take-away beside the old highway to the iguana reptile park all dead and dying dreams receive the Light

for all the women living alone with their children on the outskirts in outer lying housing-commission suburbs who tick the boxes marked separated, unmarried, divorced, defactoed who wait cold-legged on windy bus stops for that mid-morning connecting bus to the shopping town in the next satellite suburb who dream on and on on the collapsed inner-springs of lapsed mattresses stained with the reveries of next fortnights direct payment of next saturday nights bus to the dance at the  army barracks receive the Light

etc etc etc

to the families who drive their volvos, their saabs, their audis through these depressions, these sub-urbs, of a sunday arvo and can’t help themselves saying oh look at the state of the cars, look at the amount of bottles, look at the number of under-nourished and neglected poor looking little kiddies wind down the windows of your air-conditioned, side-impact protection volvos, your every-safety-feature, crumple-zone front and rear optional saabs, your driver air-bag impact safety device audis and receive the Light

etc etc etc

and let us now pray lip-service to the unemployed bodgie-jobber the do-gooder social worker weaving and warping the social fabric of lies to the computer hacker flying down the information highway to the pilgrims in sturdy plimsolls still walking the Commons and the trade routes stout staff in hand for the boxer in search of his killer instinct for the hubcap thief in search of his boxfullofsmarts to the sexkittens and fleshpots to the eyecandy and trophywives and their pure self-destruction

and let us pray lip-service to all those hellbent on a perfect contrition a perfect obliteration to all those who totally exclude themselves as if they were infectious always on the outside looking in let us pray lip-service to so much brutalised innocence so much butchered innocence so many broken children to so many lost children on Nauru, on Lampedusa, Manus Island, on the Turkish border, the Lebanese border, the Gaza Strip, the Calais Jungle, on inflatables floating around in the Mediterranean

and let us pray now for all the dry-drunks white-knuckling it and the wet-brains hugging their bottles of goon

etc etc etc

and when the bells toll at the sacred heart for another dead junkie pray for all those whose lives are a meditation on the dark hopeless days between crucifixions and resurrections

and let us pray for the self-funded retirees suffering relevance deprivation and echochambereffect confirmation bias, the mumanddad investors with bill-shock in the grip of tax-bracket creep

etc etc etc

for all those ascending to a prozac heaven and all those crashing from a seratonin sky let us pray for all the abrasives those who go against the grain cross counter to the current who have cut themselves on the bias oh yes pray for all those lovely skirts that flair and let us pray also for all those who go with the flow all the go-alongs-to-get-along

and for old ladies who sit perfectly dressed in the armchair in front of their open doors waiting in case a visitor might come calling, watching for the postie, the neighbour’s wave, the man reading the water or gas metre, for those who display weaponised victimhood, for those who poke their sleeping-dog ex-lovers and watch them turn from dog to wolf, for those who let their ex-lovers lie fallow-floating in their seagrass beds, and also let us pray for those caught out cheating via pocket-phone mishap

and let us pray for the ramraiders, the homeinvaders for the whitecollarcriminals and the spreekillers for the spindoctors and the nailsculptors for the televangilists in their megatemples and for all the inspirational speakers and their networks who fill so many yappyyappy rooms full with that clapclaphahahappy feelgood factor 

etc etc etc

and let us pray finally and most fervently and ferociously for all those who believe they are unredeemable

etc etc etc

—Kathleen-Mary Fallon
In Conversation with Dr. Kathleen Mary Fallon | Ms Julie Gabler: Trapped

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Diamond Platnumz:
—x Jason Derulo ft Khalil Harisson & Chley | Komasava—
—x Focalistic, Mapara A Jazz & Ntosh Gazi | IYO—
—x Koffi Olomide | Waah!—

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Aya Nakamura:
—x La garde républicaine | Formidable—
—x Vogue World Paris | Fly—
—x Lancôme | Hot, Baby, J’ai mal, Bobo—

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Bon Entendeur:
—Chirac | La fierté—
—Badinter | La république—
—Moreau | La passion—
—Gainsbourg | Le génie—
—Veil | La volonté—
—Brassens | L’humilité—
—Rabhi | la Conscience—
—Kateb | la Gentillesse—

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