L’avenir de l’homme est la femme, Elle est la couleur de son âme, Elle est sa rumeur et son bruit, Et sans elle il n’est qu’un blasphème, Il n’est qu’un noyau sans le fruit. Sa bouche souffle un vent sauvage Sa vie appartient aux ravages Et sa propre main le détruit.
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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