In France, adventurous poets, mercenary poets, buccaneering poets, poets seeking the open air, an open, wild territory without frontiers, where civilization (that is, death, misery, Humiliation, failure of illusions) has not yet come. A place safe from the destruction of time. They do not look for a place in the history of literature, but a word, a language, that manages to protect life, to rebuild it, to take it away from the miasma in which centuries of rationality, ambition and hatred have submerged it. Who were these poets? François Villon, Arthur Rimbaud, Lautréamont. To that list of furious poets, to that group of wild beings and, at the same time, scholars, can now be added the name of Frédéric Boyer. In my prairie is a long poem that summons a territory in which cowboys, Indians, buffaloes, warlocks, wild plants, rivers, sirens coexist under the spell of words. It is not an imaginary territory. It is a place that, for centuries, for thousands of years, the imagination and literature have been determined to protect. It is a place where we will always be safe, the free territory of childhood, the refuge we invoke before the darkness completely covers us. In my meadow is an amulet, a song, a magic formula that will keep us safe, every time we read, the ruins of the world that fall on us.