.à Lutèce voguant aux aurores de nacre,
Clocher, sonne là haut la cloche des patries
à la cité des rois, des croix, des gueux, des sacres,
Que retentisse encore le glas gras des tueries
à la ville lumière éteinte en simulacres,
Fous nous le gros bourdon, beffroi du capital.
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