In the beginning there were three brothers, carrying the shadow of the Ardennes and the weight of footsteps under the sign of ou, engraved with a great capital U, where the family myth gently takes shape.
Here is the first brother, whose name is written thus: OuUPo — capital O, lowercase u, capital U, lowercase p and o — and he is none other than myself.
The second was called Ouuuuh! a fleeting silhouette and passing murmur, while the third did not belong to this ordinary world, bearing the muted fragments of another grammar between Uncle Paul’s silences and the secrets of railway stations, where memory writes and prepares itself.
He was the best of us. When I think of him, I am often moved. Struck down by a car, he departed in modesty and silence on 31 December 1979, closing the book of childhood for ever, while adolescence awoke on 1 January 1980 at midnight and one second. When I think of him, his name is written in larger, and perhaps clumsier, characters than either of ours.
Here is the trilogy with musical accents, their names rising like a magical rhythm: OuUpo, Ouuuuh and Ouh Popopopopopo, affectionately shortened to the tender Ouhpopopo.
It is the ghost of a little girl with distant eyes, of an adoption broken at the margins of the roads, where the trials of the world and the shadows closed the door of a luminous home.
Then poetry gathers the noises of the street, bursts of voices and the language that intervened, like a final seal that keeps watch and ends there: sông sông sản xung chị chị ạ.
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