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Poème en huit vers

Восьмистишье

Ni un murmure lointain de minuit tendre,
Ni des chansons que la mère chantait,
Tout ce qu'il faudrait bien comprendre
Nous ne pouvions comprendre jamais.
Et tel de la grandeur céleste le symbole,
Un bon message et vœu exaucé,
D'une haute malaise de parole
Tu es, poète, favorisé.

Другие переводы:

  • Английский
    Николай Кондратьев
    The Octave
  • Венгерский
    Иштван Бака
    Nyolcsoros
  • Испанский
    Хорхе Бустаманте Гарсия
    Octava
  • Словацкий
    Ян Квапил
    Osemveršie
  • Украинский
    Наталия Горишная
    Восьмивірш

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