Mais moi je ne veux rire à rien ; Et libre soit cette infortune.
Ô Mort mystérieuse, ô sœur de charité !
Ô saisons, ô châteaux Quelle âme est sans défauts ?
La vraie vie est absente. Nous ne sommes pas au monde.
Comme je descendais des Fleuves impassibles, Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs : Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles, Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs.
Je regrette l'Europe aux anciens parapets !
Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ; Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal.
© 2026 My French LLC
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