.Dans le brouillard d'automne
Seulabre je marmonne
La chanson des feuilles mortes
Brumaire n'est pas coupable
De l'humeur qui m'accable
Me torture de la sorte
Passent les nuages
Ne demeure que le ciel
Mais cette larme sur mon visage
Est ternelle
Passent les nua.
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