La voiture fit halte \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9glise d\u2019Urrugne,
\nNom rauque, dont le son \u00e0 la rime r\u00e9pugne,
\nMais qui n\u2019en est pas moins un village charmant,
\nSur un sol montueux perch\u00e9 bizarrement.
\nC\u2019est un b\u00e2timent pauvre, en grosses pierres grises,
\nSans archanges sculpt\u00e9s, sans nervures ni frises,
\nQui n\u2019a pour ornement que le fer de sa croix,
\nUne horloge rustique et son cadran de bois
\nDont les chiffres romains, \u00e9pong\u00e9s par la pluie,
\nOnt coul\u00e9 sur le fond que nul pinceau n\u2019essuie.
\nMais sur l\u2019humble cadran regard\u00e9 par hasard,
\nComme les mots de flamme aux murs de Balthazar,
\nComme l\u2019inscription de la porte maudite,
\nEn caract\u00e8res noirs une phrase est \u00e9crite ;
\nQuatre mots solennels, quatre mots de latin,
\nO\u00f9 tout homme en passant peut lire son destin :
\n\u00ab Chaque heure fait sa plaie et la derni\u00e8re ach\u00e8ve ! \u00bb<\/p>\n
Oui, c\u2019est bien vrai, la vie est un combat sans tr\u00eave,
\nUn combat in\u00e9gal contre un lutteur cach\u00e9
\nQui d\u2019aucun de nos coups ne peut \u00eatre touch\u00e9 ;
\nEt dans nos c\u0153urs cribl\u00e9s, comme dans une cible,
\nTremblent les traits lanc\u00e9s par l\u2019archer invisible.
\nNous sommes condamn\u00e9s, nous devons tous p\u00e9rir ;
\nNa\u00eetre, c\u2019est seulement commencer \u00e0 mourir,
\nEt l\u2019enfant, hier encor ch\u00e9rubin chez les anges,
\nPar le ver du linceul est piqu\u00e9 sous ses langes.
\nLe disque de l\u2019horloge est le champ du combat,
\nO\u00f9 la Mort de sa faux par milliers nous abat ;
\nLa Mort, rude jouteur qui suffit pour d\u00e9fendre
\nL\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9 de Dieu, qu\u2019on voudrait bien lui prendre.
\nSur le grand cheval p\u00e2le, entrevu par saint Jean,
\nLes Heures, sans repos, parcourent le cadran ;
\nComme ces inconnus des chants du moyen-\u00e2ge,
\nLeurs casques sont ferm\u00e9s sur leur sombre visage,
\nEt leurs armes d\u2019acier deviennent tour \u00e0 tour
\nNoires comme la nuit, blanches comme le jour.
\nChaque s\u0153ur \u00e0 l\u2019appel de la cloche s\u2019\u00e9lance,
\nPrend aussit\u00f4t l\u2019aiguille ouvr\u00e9e en fer de lance,
\nEt toutes, sans piti\u00e9, nous piquent en passant,
\nPour nous tirer du c\u0153ur une perle de sang,
\nJusqu\u2019au jour d\u2019\u00e9pouvante o\u00f9 para\u00eet la derni\u00e8re
\nAvec le sablier et la noire banni\u00e8re ;
\nCelle qu\u2019on n\u2019attend pas, celle qui vient toujours,
\nEt qui se met en marche au premier de nos jours !
\nElle va droit \u00e0 vous, et, d\u2019une main trop s\u00fbre,
\nVous porte dans le flanc la supr\u00eame blessure,
\nEt remonte \u00e0 cheval, apr\u00e8s avoir jet\u00e9
\nLe cadavre au n\u00e9ant, l\u2019\u00e2me \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e9ternit\u00e9 !<\/p>\n
Urrugne, 1841.<\/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":[645],"poems-book":[616],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[614],"class_list":["post-13885","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-645","poems-book-espana","poete-theophile-gautier"],"yoast_head":"\n