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The broken
vase The vase where this vervain
dies A blow of fan was cracked;
The blow must have barely touched it,
No noise revealed it.
But the slight bruising,
biting the crystal every day,
of an invisible and safe walk,
slowly made its Turn
Its fresh water has dripped away,
the juice of the flowers has run out;
No one still suspects it,
do not touch it, it is broken.
Often also the hand we love,
touching the heart, bruises it;
Then the heart splits itself,
The flower of its love perishes.
Still intact in the eyes of the world,
He feels His fine and deep wound growing and crying down
;
He is broken, do not touch it.
Sully Prudhomme
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