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les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
êtes vous éveillé?

 



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