Ce samedi, je lis sur un panneau d'information de la Ville de Paris : "Bronchiolite. Pensez d'abord ? consulter votre m?decin."

Je tente d'exercer quotidiennement un regard critique sur l'action de la Ville de Paris et d?s lors je ne peux m'emp?cher de m'exclamer : "Excusez-moi, mais ce message est un non-sens total !".

1- Pourquoi "d'abord" ? Les citoyens sont-ils suspect?s de pratiquer l'auto-m?dication ? Ou alors sont-ils d'embl?e accuser de ne pas "d'abord" aller chez le m?decin ? Quelque soit la r?ponse, c'est scandaleux.

2- Deuxi?me objection. Comment sait-on que b?b? souffre d'une bronchiolite si on n'est pas all? consulter le m?decin ? Quelles sont les m?res qui peuvent se sentir viser par ce message ? Celles ? qui le m?decin a confirm? que b?b? souffrait d'une bronchiolite pardi ! Et si elles ont d?j? consult?, ce message ne s'adresse plus ? elles ! Un non-sens vous dis-je.

Ok, mon combat contre ce message d'information est de moindre ampleur que de manifester de l'opposition au trac? d'une nouvelle ligne de tramway. Mais je vous rappelle que je sors tout juste d'une Delano?te et que je reste encore f?brile (ce soir, j'ai trouv? ?a super pratique de pouvoir rentrer chez soi en m?tro ? 1h40).

Passons ? un ?v?nement plus marquant ? mon go?t. Cette douce journ?e du samedi 13 janvier 2007 aura vu s'?chapper un jeune cerveau cr?atif et plein de talent outre-manche. Nous nous souviendrons qu'? cette date, mon ami surnomm? "Le Sicilien" a ?migr? ? Londres. Je souhaite ? cette occasion recopier ici deux po?mes que r?citent souvent le sicilien. Le premier s'intitule "The Arrow And The Song" de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (po?te am?ricain, 1807-1882) ; le deuxi?me est de Percy Bysshe Shelley (po?te anglais, 1792-1822) et s'intitule "The Cloud".

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
The Arrow And The Song
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother?s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ?tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he love remains;
And I all the while bask in the Heaven?s blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine a?ry nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orb?d maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o?er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent?s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bin the Sun?s throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon?s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl,
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
Whilst the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and build it again.
The Cloud
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Avec son chapeau melon et ces deux po?mes sous le bras, il fera sans aucun doute un carton plein in the UK.