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BernardNowman le 20-07-2024 à 16:16:56
magnifique article est poeme mon amour (l)

je t'aimeeeeeeeeeeee (l) ma ptite femme always d'amour (l) à moi

gladys-lemire le 20-07-2024 à 16:07:17

gladys-lemire le 20-07-2024 à 16:06:29
poéme



If the sound of the bell is sad, it is much sadder

Winter, when night comes and when it’s the Angelus

Which rings heavily at the village bell tower,

Punctuated by the sobbing of the sea on the beach.

In hearts its mournful echo resounds:

The one who stays thinks of the one who left

On his boat among the mist and the storm,

And wonders, near the spinning wheel that stops,

If there, in the waves, his man, the sailor,

Like her, she heard the blows of the grave brass,

And if, despite the terrible blade that grumbles,

He remembered to cross himself like her.

Having rung the bell and said the prayers,

The two old men were going to return to their homes

And said goodbye on the threshold of the church,

When they saw, lying on a gray stone,

Something white that had been left there;

And, having both approached, it seemed to them

That it stirred vaguely. The old priest,

Worried, quickly leaned over and was able to recognize

That it was a poor being barely swaddled,

A child that a horrible mother had thrown away,

Enjoying the confident sleep of childhood,

Passing by, in this corner, almost naked, defenseless,

Like a weary traveler casts his burden far away.