Eight March. A child is born. The eyes barely open, still veiled, she listens, observes, seeks. Her heart, in re, in mi, in fa, beats the campaign.

Tender and fresh, the beast, so fragile, but fierce, opens up to the world. She babbles, mumbles, gesticulates, tilts, and then bites into life to be grasped.

Girl, she grows up, not very seasoned by the obstacles that color her desires. Woman, with great energy, she learns to become…

Heartbeat, woman, with envy, she walks. The weight of the mother, the friend, Mary, Salome or Julie on her shoulder, she animates and takes care of the grains.

Her journey is long, as far back as she can remember. From the desert to the ends of the earth, she resists. In silence, as long as she is patient, she excites her destiny day by day.

With bread and roses in her hands, she sets her path, neither slowly nor surely, like drawing the nakedness of the body finely on a blank white page.

Confident, always resilient, she never ceases... To cease to plot, to facilitate, to successfully fight to last, to move forward and anchor this challenge of difference.

The voice of the ancestor, however faint it may sound, nevertheless echoes the beaten paths.
Travelled, the path inspires. So agile and light, may it finally give wings to all these children of the world!


Sylvie L. Bergeron
8 March 2021