Quel âge a cette Iris dont on fait tant de bruit ?
Me demandait Cliton naguère ;
Il faut, dis-je, vous satisfaire,
Elle a vingt an le jour et cinquante ans la nuit.
Manger, rire, chanter, – pourtant tout est mystère !
Dans quel but venons-nous sur ce vieux monde, et d’où ?
Sommes-nous seuls ? Pourquoi le mal ? Pourquoi la terre ?
Pourquoi l’éternité stupide ? Pourquoi tout ?
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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