The hour is not for poetry. The hour is for poets. To all those who preserve the voice of Humankind. And to those who are made to fall silent. To suspended time.

Love—there indeed is the absolute reference. At last, a value that knows no criticism. No matter that societies condemn its diverse forms and only accept it when tightly corseted. Often used as a pretext for so many abuses and a breeding ground for so many disillusioned souls, literature delights in its struggles yet grants it so few victories, the excesses of its raptures inspire the arts while its mawkish sweetness remains stranded in our reality... Love was always cause for celebration but seldom the wars waged in its name. And yet beware, Valentine: your disciples are undisciplined, for love is plural and loves, singular!

It is a difficult ascent toward harmony, And a dangerous slope toward chaos. It is acquired each day and never possessed. It is not a state; it is a struggle: Peace.