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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2012-02-11 | [This text should be read in francais] | Submited by Guy Rancourt
C'est l'hiver. Le charbon de terre
Flambe en ma chambre solitaire. La neige tombe sur les toits. Blanche ! Oh, ses beaux seins blancs et froids ! MĂȘme sillage aux cheminĂ©es Qu'en ses tresses dissĂ©minĂ©es. Au bal, chacun jette, poli, Les mots fĂ©roces de l'oubli, L'eau qui chantait s'est prise en glace, Amour, quel ennui te remplace ! (Charles Cros, Le coffret de santal)
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