Test IA : https://uploadnow.io/f/5Z72Txq

The Lily of the Valley

Oh, how many restless souls! How many unfortunates!
In order to grow, only their noise increases,
The trees, without saying a word, have allowed each fruit
And to grow and ripen so that each day may be born.

To all, showing the spectacle of their misery
In the race for glory, avoiding combat,
Trying to aim high, only to fall to the lowest,
Such are our champions, luxurious poor wretches.

What does the grimace matter, in the light of the cosmos
We count no more than anything else.
If some believe in the soul, they preserve the bones,
In what ignorant trough, eternity wallows.

If he thought he was Zeus, it was by forgetting
That this title he won by fighting his father,
Thanks to all those pebbles his mother offered him
So that brothers and sisters, with their unbound wombs,

Would help him grasp the course of time, this stream.
He is brave, a little foolish, seeks a master, obeys!
Luckily for him, comes the one who heals.
When the beautiful man is dismembered from having run

All the dangers, all the honors, all the damage,
A witch, lover and sister, Isis, heals him.
As dark as one sees the forest in a storm,
There is no valley where her lily does not shine.

Posté à 02h13 le 19 sept. 25

Édité à 03h00 le 25 sept. 25 par Jim