"indigent" poems
THEME: INJUSTICE
A Duet by:
Hassan B. Hassan(Mr Sophy)
Opeyemi Fuad (Gemini)
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇
An unsung warrior I am
One that serve his homeland
Now left to wallow in shame
Betrayed, with no treacle -
To my broken esteem
What an injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We doff our hat to them
Rubbing and cleaning it with their hands
We attain them the power
But they all create new edition
No to injustice!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Preserve the nation's flag
Yet, thrown into cell
Never to see the sun rise
merry-ing with Legless rats
An unproved innocence
Government's injustice
👈Gemini👉
The baby cry out when put to bed
The dog cry out when given birth to
But we all cry out when the molecule changed
But no reaction took place
Why?
Let Justice reign!
👈Mr sophy👉
I thumbed down, on the papers
Still, my worth doesn't count
I served the government
With my heart and soul on the platter
Staked to uphold their stand
But wronged, injustice!!
👈Gemini👉
We put down our lives to save theirs
Yet they flow us with their power
Oh!what an injustice
fox government with fox Power
Justice reign!!!
👈Mr sophy👉
Thou did nothing
Than bruise our humanity
And rub it on our fresh wound,
With pepper of your injustice
Oh, an insolence!!
Despite our sacred deeds
👈Gemini👉
Indigent we are today
richer we are tomorrow
They are to keep the flag flying
Yet they make the flag vapid
No to injustice!
No to fox government
Justice we want!!
👈Mr sophy👉
©Pen of a true Gemini ™
©Mr Sophy ™
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
When I was borne
my mother passed away and
one day father also
left the hut leaving me alone
and my destiny was now
homeless, helpless and orphan
vagabond I was now
roaming around the road and streets
in search of food and shelter
But I also have some dreams
I wish if I were competent enough
I could have opened
an amazing school
where free education would
be right of every poor and needy child
and now no more poor child
would be deprived of education
I wish I could have built a dream home
for every homeless and destitute child
now no more child would
spend dark nights in the open sky
I wish I could have made
a beautiful garden where
every homeless child would play
and run after colorful butterflies
and beautiful flowers of all colors
would bloom in the garden
I wish I could have opened
a big kitchen near the dream home
where every hunger child
could eat to his fill and hence
no more child would be esurient,
unfed and indigent
I wish I could have opened a factory
where clothes could be stitched
for poor and naked children
and no more child
would be devoid of clothes
I pray to God that
my dreams come true one day
(By Kishan Negi)
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus’ train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In Fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.
3.1k
In a distant dystopia, it towers above all.
It radiates a dim blue glow, that
Transfixes eyes and minds alike.
Pulling with the gravity of 20,000 suns,
Its force cannot be rivaled.
An irresistible, iridescent abomination, and
An admonition unto the autonomy of thought.
Weaving tapestries of illusory illustrations,
Into the indigent intellect of its unsuspecticng viewers.
It's images penetrate the psyche like magic, as
Minds are manipulated into the madness, of
Mass consumption of manufactured "needs."
Its reporters replace reason with rhetoric, for
Objectivity is no obeject in an age of sound bites.
It demonizes difference, distracts, and desensitizes.
Apathy becomes queen, and facile pleasures become king.
Remember your vigilance.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
The writings on white sheets,
of paper, meander into corners of peoples troubles,
hopefully they taunt correct hemorrhages that will impulse something.
I hope that when I write some person is confused.
Or else I've created no symbolism.
Ive created nothing of worth
or
of
more than it is.
This sallow fickle body I traipse in.
It's got bones filled with osteocytic stones to shape it.
They are calcium degraded, then traded for rigid text.
This body is hard and hollow.
Like bird bones.
Like the bonds between atoms.
This sick cadaver is nothing less.
Our cells become separate selfish entities,
incapable of helping themselves.
Indigent children with no child hostels.
With no help for the homeless youth of our own corporeal phantoms.
When the Aids takes us all,
The cancer takes its toll.
When the whooping cough kills our hopes.
When we die to our dreams of home.
We die all on our own.
The skin becomes parchment.
Some day these bones can be the frame to a poem of worth.
Hung in a rich mans house.
On his wall awkward awards adorned.
Creating what I never could by a poet who was as perfect as the others.
Now the calcium lies in me,
as I lie between sheets of this meat,
of human humus before it disintegrates,
to make plants much more beautiful;
but that calcium, that carbon will make a page.
That bone will make a frame,
and my frame will stand tall like the last building left in the earth.
As there are no more humans alive to see it.
The last iris of the universe will be. A sun.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number’d with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;
From hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way
To the blest mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,
And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our minds Christ’s image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.
Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav’n at last,
What compensation for the evils past!
Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,
Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!
“Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.
“Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d,
O what a blessing in his flight deny’d!
How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!
How oft to us the Word of Life convey’d!
By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close,
I for his tomb this epitaph compose.
“Lo, here a man, redeem’d by Jesus’s blood,
“A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
“Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
“Not let his monument your heart surprise;
“Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
“Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
“Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
“I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
“He fought the paths of piety and truth,
“By these made happy from his early youth;
“In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
“Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
“Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
“And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
“Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above,
“And ask an int’rest in his saving love.
“Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
“God’s gracious wonders from the times of old.
“I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
“For he my monitor will not return.
“O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
“When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”
1.8k
Not that I have nothing to say
my words are meaningless in your presence
I have nothing to give
my worth is ashes around the fire,
the heat-waves around the sun
as you are the sun
I am an entity filled with desire
thousand and one desires in one
My belongings are grains of sand, washed away
at the touch of your oceanly waves
The heat of my soul, the energy in my eyes
all drained - courtesy of your coquetry
Drunken, weak, drained, and indigent
wondering if I stand a chance
silly me.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
5/7/2019
God, stop me at once!
I've been telling you what to do,
And there's no telling what that will do.
I lack so much in experience.
I'm so demanding,
And yet so indigent,
I order things like I'm a sergeant.
But I'm the opposite of outstanding.
I want you to work for this "god of self,"
But you're more than I could ever think.
I live and die in one blink,
I can't escape - overtaken by time's engulf.
So why do I try to be,
The boss of all of you?
I master nothing of value,
I'm just riding along in this derby.
Oh God, humble my prayers.
I've always known what I wanted,
Boldly I asked of you - undaunted.
But here is one of the answers.
I ask, and ask, and ask!
But I never listen.
Now the light bulb is on like Edison.
My pride exposed - is grotesque.
You speak in a quiet voice,
Not because you're weak,
But because we must seek.
I've gotta come to you by choice.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
*The 'plant' that feeds the town
The one that occasionally chokes the air when the wind
blows in from the South
The one that some residents mouth
off about , the ones with position
and clout , in the name of their
environmental vows
A closing that will turn the town to dust
Cause our children to go hungry
Render families indigent , Mobile homes left to rust
A city square left to the pigeons , family owned small business
going under with devilish precision
That **** plant you speak about is
the same one that we can't live without* ...
.....
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
I lived poor and died poor.
no obituary written
nowhere a black flag fluttered
no one grieved
no bells tolled
no prayers recited,
to still my departed soul!
My body was wheeled in a hearse
with a few following
with hesitant steps
more as a custom than a gesture true
the open gates of the walled cemetery
allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave
in a remote corner it stood
close to an overgrown hedge
among many a mound
that bore no name on it
Oh, the indigent and the lonely
are destined to huddle together
in death under the sod
with their identities merged
into a single clan!
My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
and as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
the distinctions of rank
extend down unto dust
and follow one like a faithful mongrel
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
Far in the Prairie, nearer the shadows of hopelessness
There stood a young indigent shepherd
Under the hawthorn tree striving to rich up
Through the thorns, where laid woodpigeon nest
With marks through his body and bleeding fingers
Hunger let no man ever to resign, commonly fathering blokes
From the thatched sheds in the village down the dry hills,
The hunter, left children with moaning paunches
Infant feeding from milkless, shrunken ******* he
Fears mostly to hurl rocks up the tree
Eggs might fall and brake on the ground
Time flows wild with rivers not come again
For he might take longer, and squabs might hatch
And fledge to fly away, and his kids might die of hunger as winter arises
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
Even if for a decade that high rich man
Did not his business plough again
By leaving his many a big furrow
Of investments away to fallow;
He shall never in this life have
Any lack and want, nor shall crave
And beg he for ordinary food and meat
That his everyday portion he can duly meet,
Seeing by the almighty virtue of
His billions--a more than enough
Substance that has been tucked away for
Many years to come--succour
Of the soul there is for his family
And him: from poverty they're free.
Howbeit this other low indigent fellow,
Who does his cherished trade follow
In detail and with diligence daily--
Praying for favour divine early--
Is still like pigs wallowing in penury,
And having no house nor a Miss to marry.
Though he's a plumber that slumbers nay; thanks
Not at all to bad economy that betimes ranks
And puts him amongst the honourable poor,
Who're seeking noble relief from door to door,
Living an inclement life devoid of comforts.
Though working as a ****** yet his efforts
And daily striving are all but a waste,
An one that reckons as no pleasant taste.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
There’s a sort of hectic language
Life’s inner city airs
The indigent grime, swearing
They do declare
As heated as Vegas summers
All ‘round the block
On the Chinatown Strip
Spring mountain valley view
The homeless congregations
Rolling their luggage
Like albatross droppings
Migratory fixtures
**** white on black walls
Black in white veins
Rolling luggage
Keeping precious metals
Coin collecting, jewelry
The bling and fake gold rings
Anything a ***** can trade
For foil wrappings
Thick with high grade
Napping in the inferno
Silver state of epidemic
Many rolling “carryon luggage”
Goes without saying
That sort of summertime language
Inner city airs
That begs
Help. To differ.
They do
Declare
It should mean war…
But, come again
welcome to our fabulous city!
Sin ain’t fair.
Love is lost here.
And still in herds, in droves
Conventions packed disinventing us
Folk.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
Im sorry I ask of so much,
This heart of mine needs too much,
Hungry that i am,
My desire burns with every swallow,
I need more, more than you can ever give,
More than u will ever know.
My need for irrelevent things highlight the minutes of my day,
Every second without them a pain,
What to do?,
You are incapable of satisfying thirst of my indigent heart.
Yet, still, you try, you angelic creature , Yet you still try
Why, oh, why do you attempt of completing my requests,
When you know I can make this your lifes quest?,
Why do you try when you know of the end,
When you know a thankyou would not be said?,
I love you, yet still I burn you,
I scorch you with my tongue,
Yet still your heart's melodic love is sung.
Thankyou Lord for blessing me with wonderful beings,
Who forgive the poisonous snake in my mouth,
Which lashes out again and again,
until a wish of mine is fullfilled.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
It isnt fair
that you should end up sleeping with the boy who boldly but secretly, confusingly just needed access to your bed
that the vague notion of your missing friends is actually a blatant chastisement about your social misdemeanor
That you should feel the urge to withdraw from any and all recreational opportunities because you can already tangibly feel the distressing friction between every differing fiber between both your brain and theirs
It isnt fair that you should be so clever, and resourceful but exposure of such elaborate operations will only occur outside all traditional institutions in the privacy of an empty audience
It isnt fair that you have unknowingly began a retreat from life and dinner with your family to find some solstice from a muddling indigent existence that requires you to obsess over trivial details just so you dont miss the rare gratifying hints of a walking compliment
It isnt fair that you'll say yes to anything you haven't learned from life experience to not want
and it isnt fair that one disadvantage should create others by consequence and default
It isnt fair that my adult facade should restrict my child appropriate responses and its public unrest
or for my simple unique characteristics to ooze the paint for which they'll use to commit my image to memory for the entire school.
I'll have to learn to put up with the eggshells that grind into the soft ***** of my feet when I blindly interact with other expressionless but feeling, thoughtless but intellectualizing people
and it isnt fair for my mortified laugh to be chastised
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
She was born into the poor
Ravaged by the rich
Grew up wanting more
Bypassed money for the
Knowledge
Itch- money
Can't buy
Happiness
She learned on her
Own-
Money is a self
Sensation,
That's when you
Learn you are
Alone. Because
Greed has shook
The foundations
Of good creation
I've learned being
indigent is a whole-
Some sensation.
I'd rather
Have
N
O
Th
Ing- going into
My Lord's
Realm- then looking
Up from a cave,
Asking for dios mercy,
By my own greediness
Being trapped inside of
Hell. Hombres y mujeres
Choose their choices
Here, the hereafter is
Where you meet your
Master- whether the God
Of whom you've rejected,
Or the winged one who
You don't fear. So you can
Wipe away your tears-
Or forgot dios, squeeze
Down a beer, get busy giving
To other's- or get greedy by
Your own mirror.
The making
Is
Y
O
U
R
O
W
N
T
H
E making is
Clear.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
There is always the square root
the road to nirvana
the mathematical equation
that solves the dilemma.,
the indigent integer that
itches my conscience and the
point that floats before my eyes.
Triangulating my position on the road to
perdition, at least I know where I am.
If the cat's in the black box and the white box
is bare,
is the cat really there?.
The idiot in me says it must be,
seeing's believing they say,
what colour is the cat that's meant to deceive?
Equations flow freely through the nearly enough now
and the answers flood in with the mail.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
Escape from captivity pulled off
when I came of age
boyhood begrudged,
and bested by brigandage,
but willpower sans declaration
of independence begot bravery
against British brutes
bridging caper (involving collusion)
to bust loose from cage,
and trappings forcibly to plunder artworks
and sculpted treasures
by classical masters
without causing damage
taught by professional thieves
requiring minimal equipage
whereat over time footage
sordid memory constantly replayed
plunder and pillage unwittingly
fostering getaway
from hell raising gambits
planting seed to gauge
optimal instance cut footloose
cutting dashing Dickensian goniff
to feign criminal shenanigans
running rampant with militant spunky gangs
"FAKING" das spies zing
trumpeting hostage killing
and taking, nonetheless
swallowing bitter pill
reeking havoc as honorable image
in order to survive
within world wide
web of criminals (especially
an unwelcome foreigner),
where skills as buccaneer
really put to test, and tried
maximum lawlessness partaken
in (dolled up) guise suppressing shied
pitifull looking indigent vagabond
self away by donning
"FAKE" whippersnapper
benefiting getting to sally and ride
always exuding patriotic pride
pleasing ghosts of founding fathers
against their autonomy from
crown weathering woe be chide
recrimination impossible
to enforce as bride
of Lady Liberty opened arms for those,
who made dangerous journey
across avast ocean
only to confront (whodunit) thuggery
this lifestyle ****** looting,
and burning WITHOUT choice,
but guilt aye didst abide.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Retrospective many generations since
marking birth of a nation
(The United States of America),
now mecca, sans land of milk and honey
current president imposed antithetical ration!
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Oui, vous avez un ange ; un jeune ange qui pleure ;
Il pleure, car il aime... et vous ne pleurez pas ;
Il s'en plaint doucement dans le ciel, puis dans l'heure,
Quand elle sonne triste à ralentir vos pas.
Voyez comme il vous donne et couve sous son aile
Des mots harmonieux tièdes d'âme et d'encens :
Et, quand vous les prenez dans sa main fraternelle,
Comme ils forment aux yeux de célestes accents.
Nous avons tous notre ange, et je tiens de ma mère,
Qu'on ne marche pas seul dans une voie amère.
Le rayon de soleil qui passe et vient vous voir,
L'haleine de vos fleurs que vous buvez le soir ;
Un pauvre qui bénit votre obole furtive,
Dont la prière à Dieu s'achève moins plaintive ;
La fraîche voix d'enfant qui vous jette : Bonjour !
Comptez que c'est votre ange et votre ange d'amour !
D'autres fois, je croyais qu'on nous coupait les ailes,
Pour nous faire oublier le chemin des oiseaux.
Puis, qu'elles renaissaient plus vives et plus belles,
Quand nous avions marché longtemps, quand les roseaux
Ne se relevaient plus près des dormantes eaux :
Nous remontions alors raconter nos voyages
Aux frères parcourant leurs villes de nuages ;
Et las de cette terre où tombent toutes fleurs,
Nous chantions au soleil avec des voix sans pleurs !
Rêves d'enfant pensif et bercé de prières,
Dont quelque doux cantique assoupit les paupières ;
Indigent, mais comblé de biens mystérieux,
Au foyer calme et nu qu'ornait le buis pieux !
À présent je suis femme à la terre exilée,
Descendue à l'école où vous brûlez vos jours ;
Toujours en pénitence ou d'un livre accablée,
N'apprenant rien du monde et l'épelant toujours !
Ce livre, c'est ma vie et ses mobiles pages
Où le cyprès serpente à chaque ligne. Eh quoi !
N'avez-vous pas des pleurs à cacher comme moi,
Sous l'album périssable et lourd de trop d'images ?
Dans ces jours embaumés respirés par le cœur,
N'avez-vous pas aussi vu tomber bien des roses ?
N'aviez-vous pas choisi parmi ces frêles choses,
Un intime trésor qui s'appela : Malheur !
Mais je crois ! mais quelque ange à l'aveugle écolière,
Ouvre parfois son aile et sa pitié de feu :
Il me laisse à genoux ; mais il desserre un peu
L'anneau qui **** de lui me retient prisonnière !
817
Ms. Mabelline Merryweather might not follow all rules and regulations at Social Services to a T, but she does get the job done efficiently. She knows well paper pile-ups, bureaucratic mumbo jumbo is second language to her. No unruly impatient Podunk piece of indigent indecency can rile the likes of Ms. Mabelline. She's cool as a cucumber on a chilled salad bar. Speaking of which, it is just now two minutes away from Ms. Mabelline's cherished lunch entourage with fellow ladies of the office. So, if you'd like to get your claim copied and filed quickly, you'll give Ms. Mabelline her due respect, else your *** might be chilling back in the waiting room, till she's finished laughing over your pathetic life from a table at TGIF's this noon hour. You know, claim uncertainties and misfilings have been known to jam up processing for weeks, don't ya know?
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I cannot tell--
Whether you are
Walking towards me
Or walking away from me.
Every hello entails a farewell--
No one can avoid its inevitability,
But I have always
Been an isolated isle,
A timorous turtle withdrawn
Into the shelter of my shell,
Indigent of affection.
Written 5/30/2015
(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Who have we become?
You rather record a video
as you watch as I drown!
What morals do we uphold?
Babies in concentration camps,
The government doesn’t call them that..,
The refugees have no refuge
We refute their rights.
The existence of the indigent
causes an uproar, shelters
can only be housed in poverty
stricken zones plagued
with crimes. On 57th Street
people work too hard, the homeless
will depreciate the value of their skyscrapers
the sight out the window
Will be too dark.
And we depreciate life.
Who have we become?
Who do we care for?
Teenager years are now
forgone, cops shoot children
but keep their jobs.
Cops are scared and shoot too fast.
Priests **** boys but that’s fine
the churches are filled on Sundays
because, they still are the intercessors
between Men and God. So we have
a faithless generation that doesn’t
value life, they are desensitize,
let’s blame it on Hip-Hop,
yet, if you are not vanilla
your pride melts on sidewalks
and the sprinkles that were on
your chocolate are splattered
in concrete floors.
Who have we become,
Our cellphones are a weapons
Of mass destruction, that
that causes sleepless nights,
We rather record a shooting
than call 9-11.
We rather say “not my problem”
I’ll keep going my Merry way,
but Maria lost her son
because no one cared.
The animals are caged
with freedom they become enraged,
trying to find their way
YouTube becomes their only friend,
because in the sandbox of life they cannot play.
Who have we become?
The real criminals, work at the White house.
A suicide letter doesn’t alarm.
The alarm doesn’t sound off,
the notifications alert is off
While this video…I RECORD
This is the path of the walking dead,
that human connection
we traded for Facebook likes;
So **** happens all around us,
and they only way we think to help
is by pressing the recording button
that lets the world know, I was there.
LeydisProse
6/22/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse//
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Pardonnez-moi, Seigneur, mon visage attristé,
Vous qui l'aviez formé de sourire et de charmes ;
Mais sous le front joyeux vous aviez mis les larmes,
Et de vos dons, Seigneur, ce don seul m'est resté.
C'est le mois envié, c'est le meilleur peut-être :
Je n'ai plus à mourir à mes liens de fleurs ;
Ils vous sont tous rendus, cher auteur de mon être,
Et je n'ai plus à moi que le sel de mes pleurs.
Les fleurs sont pour l'enfant ; le sel est pour la femme ;
Faites-en l'innocence et trempez-y mes jours.
Seigneur ! quand tout ce sel aura lavé mon âme,
Vous me rendrez un coeur pour vous aimer toujours !
Tous mes étonnements sont finis sur la terre,
Tous mes adieux sont faits, l'âme est prête à jaillir,
Pour atteindre à ses fruits protégés de mystère
Que la pudique mort a seule osé cueillir,
Ô Sauveur ! soyez tendre au moins à d'autres mères,
Par amour pour la vôtre et par pitié pour nous !
Baptisez leurs enfants de nos larmes amères,
Et relevez les miens tombés à vos genoux !
Que mon nom ne soit rien qu'une ombre douce et vaine,
Qu'il ne cause jamais ni l'effroi ni la peine !
Qu'un indigent l'emporte après m'avoir parlé
Et le garde longtemps dans son coeur consolé !
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