Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Éparse au vent crispé du matin Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym… Et tout le reste est littérature.
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches Et puis voici mon cœur, qui ne bat que pour vous.
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint.
Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours.
Non. Il fut gallican, ce siècle*, et janséniste !
Prends l'éloquence et tords-lui son cou !
© 2026 My French LLC
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