L'eau coule paisible là où le courant est profond.
Non, je ne suis pas né sous une rimailleuse étoile.
Soyons des sacrificateurs, non des bouchers.
Reste toujours l'odeur de sang : tous les parfums de l'Arabie n'adouciraient pas cette petite main.
Le Temps, monseigneur, a sur le dos un sac où ce monstre géant d'ingratitude enfouit sans cesse des aumônes pour l'oubli.
La radieuse journée est finie, et nous entrons dans les ténèbres.
Il est dangereux d'être trop zélé.
© 2026 My French LLC
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