\u00c0 ceux qui n\u2019ont ni feu, ni lieu,
\nEt qui sont lents, et qui sont vieux,
\n\u00c0 ceux qui, jour \u00e0 jour,
\n\u2014 Depuis quels temps \u2014 ont fait le tour
\nDe leur mis\u00e8re s\u00e9dentaire,
\nAux pauvres gens des durs m\u00e9tiers :
\nPortiers, veilleurs, gardiens et cantonniers,
\nLes petites villes octroient, parfois,
\nLe b\u00e9n\u00e9fice
\nDe boire et de manger et de dormir, sans joie,
\nDerri\u00e8re un mur de vieil hospice.<\/p>\n
Le monument, avec son large toit
\nEt ses anciens pignons, s\u2019assoit
\nAu bout de la grand\u2019rue.
\nLe van des si\u00e8cles diss\u00e9mina sa nuit,
\nEn poussi\u00e8re noire, autour de lui.
\nAngles, bosses, plaques, verrues,
\nFont leur saillie \u00e0 sa fa\u00e7ade ;
\nIl est d\u2019un bloc \u2014 et sa largeur est perfor\u00e9e,
\nDe part en part, de fen\u00eatres carr\u00e9es
\nQui regardent la cour sym\u00e9trique et maussade.
\nEt c\u2019est l\u00e0 qu\u2019ils v\u00e9g\u00e8tent, les vieux,
\nAutour de grands po\u00ebles de fonte.
\nL\u2019hiver est froid, le vent hargneux,
\nOh ! que de fois, les soirs, ils font le compte
\nDe leurs malheurs, de leurs chagrins,
\n\u00c0 sourde voix, \u00e0 lentes mains,
\nDevant les autres vieux, qui n\u2019\u00e9coutent plus gu\u00e8re.
\nIl en est qui s\u2019en furent en guerre,
\nSi loin, que les astres de leur bruy\u00e8re
\nN\u2019\u00e9clairaient plus ces pays de l\u00e0-bas ;
\nIls en sont revenus, min\u00e9s et las,
\nHeureux du maigre emploi que leur offrait la ville ;
\nD\u2019autres survivent seuls \u00e0 leur famille ;
\nD\u2019autres songent \u00e0 leur enfant,
\nQui s\u2019embarqua vers les levants,
\nSans rien leur en apprendre,
\nEt c\u2019est leur mal de chaque jour,
\nDe repenser encor \u00e0 son retour
\nEt de ne plus y croire, et, n\u00e9anmoins, toujours,
\nD\u2019attendre\u2026<\/p>\n
Oh ! ces vitres par o\u00f9 l\u2019on voit,
\nAu long de blancs murs droits,
\nTra\u00eener les vieux, de fen\u00eatre en fen\u00eatre ;
\nEt ces couloirs o\u00f9 l\u2019on entend
\nSonner le bruit intermittent
\nDe leurs b\u00e2tons de h\u00eatre ;
\nEt ce piteux et pauvre banc,
\nO\u00f9, deux par deux, au jour tombant,
\nIls s\u2019arr\u00eatent et longuement se taisent,
\nQuand leurs pipes, comme des braises,
\nBr\u00fblent seules, de leurs points d\u2019or,
\nLe vide obscur et mort
\nDes corridors.<\/p>\n
Les vieux, les pauvres vieux, avec leur dos en bois,
\nEt leurs regards lointains, et leur d\u00e9funte voix,
\nEt leurs craintes durant les insomnies,
\nEt leur patience \u00e0 compter le temps,
\nEt l\u2019\u00e9go\u00efste et m\u00e9canique ent\u00eatement
\nDe leurs manies !<\/p>\n
Voici la nuit qui tombe et attise leurs maux ;
\nVoici leurs lents d\u00e9parts, comme les mots
\nMonotones des litanies,
\nEt leur silence, au fond du vieux dortoir,
\nO\u00f9 les cierges \u00e9claireront, un soir,
\nLeurs agonies.<\/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":[695],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[654],"class_list":["post-15354","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-561","poems-book-les-villes-a-pignons","poete-emile-verhaeren"],"yoast_head":"\n