Vertu de la cellule oblongue au parfum d\u2019ambre !
\nLa fen\u00eatre est ouverte aux rayons affaiblis,
\nLes murs sont nus et gris comme un ciel de novembre
\nEt jettent leurs reflets sur les mo\u00ebllons polis.
\nNul bruit que les soupirs de l\u2019heure qui s\u2019\u00e9coule
\nEt de la nonne assise et que le calme endort,
\nD\u2019une colombe en bas la plainte qui roucoule
\nMonte, mais ce murmure est du silence encor.
\nAu bord de la fen\u00eatre, en un verre d\u2019eau pure,
\nUne derni\u00e8re rose a le na\u00eff dessin
\nDes fleurs droites qu\u2019on voit dans les vieilles peintures.
\nAu-del\u00e0 c\u2019est la plaine et son morne terrain.
\nDans les champs la lumi\u00e8re \u00e9tend une dentelle
\nO\u00f9 l\u2019automne a dress\u00e9 ses branchages dor\u00e9s
\nComme pour un autel f\u00e9ri\u00e9 de chapelle.
\nSur une planche o\u00f9 des volumes sont serr\u00e9s,
\nLa nonne a pris un livre et m\u00e9dite un passage.
\nQu\u2019importe sous le ciel la ronde des saisons !
\nIci le lit \u00e9troit \u00e9voque un sarcophage
\nEt tous les gestes ont des couleurs d\u2019oraisons.
\nQue madame Marie entre en robe de nue,
\nIci s\u2019\u00e9panouit la candeur qui lui pla\u00eet
\nEt s\u2019acharne \u00e0 mourir une \u00e2me morfondue
\nDe l\u2019\u00e9grenage sourd du pesant chapelet.
\nLe front a conserv\u00e9 la rondeur pu\u00e9rile
\nEt brille comme un fruit sous la bande de lin,
\nLe regard enfonc\u00e9 luit d\u2019un feu peu tranquille,
\nLa bouche a pris un pli que donnent les mots saints
\nEt les baisers ardents aux m\u00e9dailles b\u00e9nites.
\nLa robe noire met une ombre dans le clair
\nEt ses d\u00e9placements gardent le poids d\u2019un rite
\nEn d\u00e9pit du nez amusant qui perce l\u2019air.
\nOr, devant le prie-dieu qui meuble l\u2019oratoire,
\nEntre deux tibias une t\u00eate de mort
\nEst assise et des dents manquent \u00e0 la m\u00e2choire.
\nL\u00e0, chaque soir, songeant au n\u00e9ant de son corps,
\nLa vierge vient meurtrir ses petits seins timides
\nPour \u00e9touffer son c\u0153ur et la tentation
\nEt sur sa chair d\u2019enfant produire en vain des rides ;
\nCar dans la nuit, souvent, dress\u00e9 comme un lion,
\nLe d\u00e9sir de la vie irr\u00e9sistible grince,
\nSa fleur de sang \u00e9clate \u00e0 l\u2019appel du printemps
\nEt des galops fougueux que sa voix faible \u00e9vince
\nL\u2019incitent \u00e0 c\u00e9der, venus du fond des temps.
\nSes jours se faneront, sa chair \u00e9tiol\u00e9e
\nSera comme une fleur prise dans un missel.
\nSa forme ira dormir, aux cendres raval\u00e9e,
\nLaide d\u2019avoir v\u00e9cu pour l\u2019\u00e9pine et le sel.
\nLes colombes en bas roucoulent, monotones,
\nUn air d\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9 immuable et fatal.
\nUn vain soleil ti\u00e9dit sur l\u2019ennui des automnes,
\nLe devoir est la mort, le plaisir est le mal.
\nL\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9 sourit de la minute humaine,
\nUn champ de croix s\u2019arr\u00eate \u00e0 l\u2019horizon voil\u00e9 ;
\nRien n\u2019est vrai que le deuil o\u00f9 l\u2019\u00e2me se surm\u00e8ne
\nEt que le jet gothique au z\u00e9nith envol\u00e9.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"parent":0,"template":"","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"default","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}}},"annee":[561],"poems-book":[562],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[565],"class_list":["post-12206","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-561","poems-book-tandis-que-la-terre-tourne","poete-cecile-sauvage"],"yoast_head":"\n