Notre-Dame la Lourde deviendras-tu Notre-Dame la Légère?

Tu n’as pas de nom,

Je te donne un nom,

Tu es la désirée et l’indésirable,

Tu es la noble et l’ignoble,

Tu es le pélobate qui crie la nuit sans qu’on ne se rende compte,

Tu es le refuge et le danger,

De ceux qui ne regardent pas le ciel,

De ceux qui n’ont pas de Ciel,

Tu es les débris des peines distraites,

Des rires jaunes comme le tournesol,

Qui savoure le soleil chaque jour,

Toi tu savoures le zéro arrondi comme la pleine lune,

Tu craches sur le bonheur sordide,

Tu t’attaches à une mesquinerie que tu t’infliges,

Tu es affalée et tu repousses tout ce qui t’entoure,

Tes yeux fuient les retrouvailles,

Et se révulsent quand le temps casse,

Quand on te vend des écrits,

Quand on te dit que c’est spirituel,

Et que le théâtre t’apaisera,

Et quand on te dit que l’eau te bénira,

Comme l’eau qui coule quand tu pisses,

A quoi bon faire mourir les cœurs?

Puis faire mourir les êtres,

Notre-Dame la Lourde,

Tous ces pauvres gens qui crient,

Et ces cœurs qui s’abandonnent,

Qui viennent t’emmerder par leurs cris,

Et toi tu t’en bats les grouilles,

Tu portes un bouquet de ronces brillantes,

Et des épines que tu offres au peuple,

Tu te demandes si les pivoines seront mieux,

Mais les pivoines sont plus douces que toi,

Tu pleures des perles dans ta jeunesse,

Toi qui sors à pas lents,

Tandis qu’une main adorée te caresse,

Toi qui marches sans savoir où,

Qui traverses une place sans entendre qu’on te parle,

Qui t’es assise dans un lieu, riant et pleurant sans raison,

Toi qui poses tes mains sur ton visage sangloté,

Pour y respirer un reste de parfum,

Tu y respires les ruines des naufragés,

Les naufragés que tu as bâtis,

Toi qui as battu tous ces naufragés,

Par ton âme anéantie,

Notre-Dame la Méchante,

Tu es douce parfois,

Tu es un triste musée qui pleure,

Tu pleures chaque amnésie,

Tu es l'héroïne qui s’évanouit,

Et le diable qui repentit,

Tu n’as qu’à t’excuser,

Auprès de tous les déchirés,

Qu’on crache sur toi un jour,

Tu serais peut-être une jolie fleur,

Car l’eau serait pleine d’odeur,

Et les déchirés auraient un jour des cœurs,

Notre-Dame Arrachante d’ardeur,

Tu deviendras Notre-Dame bonheur,

Tu seras la Somptueuse,

Tu seras la Délicieuse,

Et les pauvres cœurs te croqueront,

Comme on croque un citron amer,

Tu ne seras plus la Torride,

Tu seras peut-être la Splendide,

Alors accepte, Notre-Dame la Lourde,

De devenir Notre-Dame la Légère.

Dina Jaddour

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