Depuis l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 que se brisa sur elle
\nLe dernier coup d\u2019\u00e9clair et de tonnerre,
\nLe silence n\u2019est point sorti
\nDe la bruy\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Autour de lui, l\u00e0-bas, les clochers droits
\nSecouent leur cloche, entre leurs doigts,
\nAutour de lui, r\u00f4dent les attelages,
\nAvec leur charge \u00e0 triple \u00e9tage,
\nAutour de lui, aux lisi\u00e8res des sapini\u00e8res,
\nGrince la roue en son orni\u00e8re,
\nMais aucun bruit n\u2019est assez fort
\nPour d\u00e9chirer l\u2019espace intense et mort.<\/p>\n
Depuis l\u2019\u00e9t\u00e9 de tonnerres charg\u00e9,
\nLe silence n\u2019a pas boug\u00e9,
\nEt la bruy\u00e8re, o\u00f9 les soirs plongent
\nPar au del\u00e0 des montagnes de sable
\nEt des taillis infinissables,
\nAu fond lointain des loins, l\u2019allonge.<\/p>\n
Les vents m\u00eames ne remuent point les branches
\nDes vieux m\u00e9l\u00e8zes, qui se penchent
\nL\u00e0-bas, o\u00f9 se mirent, en des marais,
\nObstin\u00e9ment, ses yeux abstraits ;
\nSeule, le fr\u00f4le, en leurs voyages,
\nL\u2019ombre muette des nuages
\nOu quelquefois celle, l\u00e0-haut,
\nD\u2019un vol planant de grands oiseaux.<\/p>\n
Depuis le dernier coup d\u2019\u00e9clair rayant la terre,
\nRien n\u2019a mordu, sur le silence autoritaire.<\/p>\n
Ceux qui travers\u00e8rent sa vastitude,
\nQu\u2019il fasse aurore ou cr\u00e9puscule,
\nOnt subi tous l\u2019inqui\u00e9tude
\nDe l\u2019inconnu qu\u2019il inocule.<\/p>\n
Comme une force ample et supr\u00eame,
\nIl reste, indiscontin\u00fbment, le m\u00eame :
\nDes murs obscurs de sapins noirs
\nBarrent la vue au loin, vers des sentiers d\u2019espoir ;
\nDe grands gen\u00e9vriers songeurs
\nEffraient les pas des voyageurs ;
\nDes sentes complexes comme des signes
\nS\u2019entrem\u00ealent, en courbes et lignes malignes,
\nEt le soleil d\u00e9place, \u00e0 tout moment,
\nLes mirages, vers o\u00f9 s\u2019en va l\u2019\u00e9garement.<\/p>\n
Depuis l\u2019\u00e9clair par l\u2019orage forg\u00e9,
\nL\u2019\u00e2pre silence, aux quatre coins de la bruy\u00e8re,
\nN\u2019a point chang\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Les vieux bergers que leurs cent ans disloquent
\nEt leurs vieux chiens, us\u00e9s et comme en loques,
\nLe regardent, parfois, dans les plaines sans bruit,
\nSur les dunes en or que les ombres chamarrent.
\nS\u2019asseoir, immens\u00e9ment, du c\u00f4t\u00e9 de la nuit.
\nAlors les eaux ont peur, au pli des mares,
\nLa bruy\u00e8re se voile et bl\u00eamit toute,
\nChaque feuill\u00e9e, \u00e0 chaque arbuste, \u00e9coute
\nEt le couchant incendiaire
\nTait, devant lui, les cris brandis de sa lumi\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Et les hameaux qui l\u2019avoisinent,
\nSous les chaumes de leurs cassines,
\nOnt la terreur de le sentir, l\u00e0-bas,
\nDominateur, quoique ne bougeant pas ;
\nMornes d\u2019ennui et d\u2019impuissance,
\nIls se tiennent, sous sa pr\u00e9sence,
\nComme aux aguets \u2014 et redoutent de voir,
\n\u00c0 travers les brumes qui se desserrent,
\nSoudainement, s\u2019ouvrir, dans la lune, le soir,
\nLes yeux d\u2019argent de ses myst\u00e8res.<\/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":[201],"poems-book":[688],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[654],"class_list":["post-15215","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-201","poems-book-les-villages-illusoires","poete-emile-verhaeren"],"yoast_head":"\n