Les grand\u2019routes tracent des croix
\n\u00c0 l\u2019infini, \u00e0 travers bois ;
\nLes grand\u2019routes tracent des croix lointaines
\n\u00c0 l\u2019infini, \u00e0 travers plaines ;
\nLes grand\u2019routes tracent des croix
\nDans l\u2019air livide et froid,
\nO\u00f9 voyagent les vents d\u00e9chevel\u00e9s
\n\u00c0 l\u2019infini, par les all\u00e9es.<\/p>\n
Arbres et vents pareils aux p\u00e8lerins,
\nArbres tristes et fous o\u00f9 l\u2019orage s\u2019accroche,
\nArbres pareils au d\u00e9fil\u00e9 de tous les saints,
\nAu d\u00e9fil\u00e9 de tous les morts
\nAu son des cloches,
\nArbres qui combattez au Nord
\nEt vents qui d\u00e9chirez le monde,
\n\u00d4 vos luttes et vos sanglots et vos remords
\nSe d\u00e9battant et s\u2019engouffrant dans les \u00e2mes profondes !<\/p>\n
Voici novembre assis aupr\u00e8s de l\u2019\u00e2tre,
\nAvec ses maigres doigts chauff\u00e9s au feu ;
\nOh tous ces morts l\u00e0-bas, sans feu ni lieu,
\nOh tous ces vents cognant les murs opini\u00e2tres
\nEt repouss\u00e9s et rejet\u00e9s
\nVers l\u2019inconnu, de tous c\u00f4t\u00e9s.<\/p>\n
Oh tous ces noms de saints sem\u00e9s en litanies,
\nTous ces arbres, l\u00e0-bas,
\nCes vocables de saints dont la monotonie
\nS\u2019allonge infiniment dans la m\u00e9moire ;
\nOh tous ces bras invocatoires
\nTous ces rameaux \u00e9perdument tendus
\nVers on ne sait quel christ aux horizons pendu.<\/p>\n
Voici novembre en son manteau gris\u00e2tre
\nQui se blottit de peur au fond de l\u2019\u00e2tre
\nEt dont les yeux soudain regardent,
\nPar les carreaux cass\u00e9s de la crois\u00e9e,
\nLes vents et les arbres se convulser
\nDans l\u2019\u00e9tendue effarante et blafarde.<\/p>\n
Les saints, les morts, les arbres et le vent,
\nOh l\u2019identique et affolant cort\u00e8ge
\nQui tourne et tourne, au long des soirs de neige ;
\nLes saints, les morts, les arbres et le vent,
\nDites comme ils se confondent dans la m\u00e9moire
\nQuand les marteaux battants
\n\u00c0 coups de bonds dans les bourdons,
\n\u00c9cart\u00e8lent leur deuil aux horizons,
\nDu haut des tours impr\u00e9catoires.<\/p>\n
Et novembre, pr\u00e8s de l\u2019\u00e2tre qui flambe,
\nAllume, avec des mains d\u2019espoir, la lampe
\nQui br\u00fblera, combien de soirs, l\u2019hiver ;
\nEt novembre si humblement supplie et pleure
\nPour attendrir le c\u0153ur m\u00e9canique des heures !<\/p>\n
Mais au dehors, voici toujours le ciel, couleur de fer,
\nVoici les vents, les saints, les morts
\nEt la procession profonde
\nDes arbres fous et des branchages tors
\nQui voyagent de l\u2019un \u00e0 l\u2019autre bout du monde.
\nVoici les grand\u2019routes comme des croix
\n\u00c0 l\u2019infini parmi les plaines
\nLes grand\u2019routes et puis leurs croix lointaines
\n\u00c0 l\u2019infini, sur les vallons et dans les bois !<\/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":[482],"poems-book":[690],"poemes-theme":[336,330,149],"poete":[654],"class_list":["post-15248","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-482","poems-book-les-vignes-de-ma-muraille","poemes-theme-automne","poemes-theme-mort","poemes-theme-nature","poete-emile-verhaeren"],"yoast_head":"\n