In the church Saint Nicolas

Every day, she sits in penitent, Joining the white and fine fingers religiously. And the holy statues watch over her silently As they made her formerly when she was a communicant. Her fresh beauty hidden under the light lace veil, She prays in the light pale as when she was a child To escape the bad whip of the agonies, And to matter among the elected representatives of eternal dawns. If beautiful, so innocent in the days of her, twenty years She prays ardently by squeezing her missal triumphantly, Refusing itself in the ground life and in the happiness Avoiding the carefreeness and the innocence of children's games, Forgetting her, feminine life and its youth in the firmament, Getting ready strangely in the day of the last hour.