.Enfin couchés,
Sur l'autel des cafards,
Priant les cieux,
D'avoir marqué toutes les mémoires.
Bien apprêtés,
Comme pour leurrer les regards et cette odeur de cadavre:
Moisi,
Flétri.
Persuadés d'avoir frôlé la grâce
Mais vous êtes morts en vain.
.
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