Instant – V

.

Il touche mais ne goûte à la terre

Sous bien des siècles noyé,

Le marbre froid qui l’enserre

Est depuis toujours son foyer;

Lui, si loin de sa terre natale,

Arbhorre à jamais ce sourire

Car si blessure n’est pas fatale

Jamais ne se verra guérir.

.

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