Le vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd'hui […].
Nous sommes La triste opacité de nos spectres futurs.
Toute âme est une mélodie, qu'il s'agit de renouer […].
Calme bloc ici-bas chu d'un désastre obscur […].
Ô miroir ! Eau froide par l'ennui dans ton cadre gelée […].
[…] Ayant peur de mourir lorsque je couche seul.
Sait-on ce que c'est qu'écrire ? Une ancienne et très vague mais jalouse pratique, dont gît le sens au mystère du cœur.
© 2026 My French LLC
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