J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère L’automne est morte, souviens t’en Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre Odeur du temps, brin de bruyère Et souviens-toi que je t’attends
Loin des oiseaux, des troupeaux, des villageoises,
Je buvais, accroupi dans quelque bruyère,
Entourée de tendres bois de noisetiers,
Par un brouillard d’après-midi tiède et vert.
Saviez-vous que l’épigramme était le plus court des genres littéraires ? Découvrez ma sélection d’épigrammes d’auteurs et mes écrits personnels.
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