.J'entre avec l'aube,
Dans le village endormi.
Mon vieux sac de cuir à l'épaule;
Ãtranger, en ce pays.
Cerné, besoin de repos,
D'un café, d'un bain chaud.
D'un lit, bordé de draps blancs
Terre promise, de l'itinérant.
En chemin, la crasse est de mi.
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