Sho-E

Sho-E is my way of painting from silence.
Each stroke begins before the brush touches paper—
in a breath, a pause, a quiet listening.
There is no correction, no return.
The line appears as it must.

I work with water, ink, and the fragile space
between intention and release.
Forms rise not from technique
but from a moment of trust:
the hand follows the heart,
and the heart follows stillness.

Sho-E does not try to represent the world.
It lets the world pass through the brush,
like light through a window.

A gesture.
A silence.
A small truth in motion.

Longchado

Longchado is a contemporary way of tea —
simple, unhurried, and sincere.
It begins not with technique, but with a breath.
Before the leaf opens, before steam appears,
there is a quiet moment where you meet yourself again.

Water reflects your clarity.
Clay, shaped into a teapot or a bowl,
holds the warmth of hands and earth.
Heat awakens the leaf — and you.
Slowness deepens taste
and widens the moment.

Longchado is not ceremony.
It is connection —
a cup shared with yourself or another,
without roles, without performance.
A softened boundary.
A gesture of presence.

Water. Clay. Heat. Breath.
A teapot or a bowl.
A moment of quiet clarity.

 I Am

I am a son

who comes home crying

for no reason —

quietly, across the old floor tiles

of night.

I am a poet

standing at the mouth of an alley,

counting each step

without a single lyric.

I am a wanderer

circling the earth,

listening to strangers

until their eyes

become my teachers.

I am a writer without a pen —

only breath,

only rhythm —

shaping a verse

from the silence

that holds it.

I am the same boy,

of no century,

awakened

without knowing why.

I am a lost bowl

from an old kiln

that no longer exists —

missing the hands

that once shaped its shadow.

I am a river

returning to its mountains,

to its source —

from the open sea

guided by a few pebbles.

I am the man

behind green shutters, open,

longing for nothing

on the same street

where longing was born.

I am a shard of time

without code or name,

searching for galaxies

that refuse names.

I am the light

of an oil lamp

buried beneath a thousand stones —

still breathing,

still warm.

And I am the boy

walking again

in my own footsteps —

without knowing why,

without needing to.

Je Suis 

Je suis un fils

qui rentre chez lui en pleurant,

sans raison —

silencieusement, sur les vieux carreaux

de la nuit.

Je suis un poète

immobile à l’entrée d’une ruelle,

comptant chaque pas

sans un seul vers.

Je suis un voyageur

faisant le tour de la terre,

écoutant des inconnus

jusqu’à ce que leurs yeux

deviennent mes maîtres.

Je suis un écrivain sans plume —

rien que le souffle,

rien que le rythme —

sculptant un vers

à partir du silence

qui le porte.

Je suis le même enfant,

d’aucun siècle,

éveillé

sans savoir pourquoi.

Je suis un bol égaré

d’un vieux four

disparu —

en manque des mains

qui modelaient son ombre.

Je suis une rivière

revenant vers ses montagnes,

vers sa source —

depuis la mer ouverte,

guidée par quelques galets.

Je suis l’homme

derrière des volets verts, ouverts,

ne désirant rien

dans la même rue

où le désir est né.

Je suis un fragment de temps

sans code ni nom,

cherchant des galaxies

qui refusent le nom.

Je suis la lumière

d’une lampe à huile

ensevelie sous mille pierres —

toujours vivante,

toujours chaude.

Et je suis l’enfant,

revenant marcher

dans mes propres pas —

sans savoir pourquoi,

sans en avoir besoin.