Vox populi Vox dei by Katia Elkaim

Master Raven on a perched tree, held a cheese in his beak. Master Fox by the odor, attracted by the scent, of his voice made use, and held this language to him...

From my window open on this glorious autumn day, I hear calls, but also some laughter. As I try to concentrate on my work, my mind drifts and, without being aware of it, proceeds to a proper analysis of these disturbing noises.

There are three different voices and all three are young. I can tell by their tone of voice and by the words they are using . They are masculine because of their tonality. I can hear the breath in one of the three, and I visualize in its owner a certain heaviness, while the other two are clear and sharp, as slender as the blade of a knife. One of them has a southern accent and must have dark hair.

Will I get up from my desk to check? By the time I make up my mind, the voices have stopped and when I lean out the window, I don't see anyone.

This little game has made me think about my own voice, about its lack of proper pronunciation that I pretend not to know, about this voice that no one ever hears except from the inside.

The voice, the speech that allows us to communicate, the voice of the singer that delights or the voice that expresses a suffrage.

Three different voices, three same words.

I thought back to those decisive voices, recognizable among all: that of General de Gaulle at the time of the June 18 appeal, that of Martin Luther King's dream on August 28, 1963, or that of Robert Badinter, pleading before parliament for the abolition of the death penalty, because he said: "Guillotining is nothing more than t