.Les feuilles se désespèrent aux arbres de l'hiver>
Et les oiseaux s'élancent, là -haut, dans le silence.
Tu vois: on tue le temps qui meurt à chaque instant
Emporté par le vent, doucement.
Nos rêves s'évaporent au fond des corridors.
De la rouille et de l'eau aux grilles de.
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