Who is this that darkeneth my reputation without knowledge?
Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me.
Where wast thou when I first laid my lips on the lips of a girl? Declare where ‘twas and under which latitude.
Who hath taught me how to ride a bike? Or who hath first killed a swallow for me to eat?
What is the first name of the girl who turn’d my blind heart into a poet’s all-seeing one?
When I read nights and days the stanzas written by Baudelaire, as a lost heart clinging to the advice of a lost soul from the past, wert thou lightening up the candles that illuminated the scriptures on my pages?
Of which shade is the notebook in which are kept the secret poems from my teenage-hood which I carry everywhere with me as uttermost treasure?
Knowest thou the name of my greatest heartbreak and what exact skill that pain hath taught me?
Hast thou entered the gates of my soul and contemplated of what feeling my soul’s fire is fed?
What truth hath made me utter to life: Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore and nevermore…
Canst thou write the next poem I shalt publish with its exact rhymes? If so, tell me all of its substance and what sceneries shalt inspire it, ahead of time, now…
Name the name of the man who prophesied about what I prophesied when I was still a young man and who told me the right time to prophesy that poetry about my country?
Gavest thou to I the orders to love this and that, and to stop loving this and that?
Cometh the source of my inspiration from the rivers of Babylon or Zion? Or if it cometh from neither, where doth it come? Cometh the source of my inspiration only from myself or where is it that I look before reaping each of the first fruits of my verses?
When wast the best time something utterly unholy and untrue I uttered?
Canst thou tell me the percentage of love, hatred, joy, sadness, will, laziness and saintliness my psyche is made of?
Wilt thou shackle my destiny in a song neither I nor the God I worship shalt be able to override? Art thy words based on the stream of truths that flash through my mind days and nights or is thy hatred dictating the powerless rhymes thou churn out?
Indeed, I know thou canst do everything, and that no thought can be withholden from thee.
— Gilles F. Dogbo