Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours.
Si ces hiers allaient manger nos beaux demains ?
Je suis l'Empire à la fin de la décadence, Qui regarde passer les grands Barbares blancs En composant des acrostiches indolents D'un style d'or où la langueur du soleil danse.
L'espoir luit comme un brin de paille dans l'étable.
— Qu'as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà Pleurant sans cesse, Dis, qu'as-tu fait, toi que voilà De ta jeunesse ?
Si ces hiers allaient manger nos beaux demains ?
Ah, quand refleuriront les roses de septembre !
© 2026 My French LLC
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