.C'est l'heure où la nuit fait avec l'aube son troc.
Dans un pays lugubre, en sa plus morne zone,
Précipité, profond, massif comme le Rhône
Un gave droit, muet, huileux, mou dans son choc,
Sol gris, rocs, ronce, et là , parmi les maigres aunes,
Les fouillis de chardons, les co.
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