On entre, on crie Et c'est la vie ! On crie, on sort Et c'est la mort.
Rien n'est vrai qui ne se prouve par la mort.
La mort d'autrui soumet le vivant, résigné, aux lois inévitables. La sienne, il la considère comme un assassinat.
Si je ne m'occupe pas de nos morts, qui s'en occupera ?
Commencer l'homme par sa mort, c'est ma tendresse […].
Approche-t-il du but, quitte-t-il ce séjour, Rien ne trouble sa fin : c'est le soir d'un beau jour.
Ne me farde pas la mort.
© 2026 My French LLC
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