L'Aître De Verre
Ce toit tranquille où marchent des signaux,
Palpite froid sous l'ombre des réseaux ;
Midi l'exact y compose sa trame.
Le flux, le flux, toujours recommencé !
Ô froid miroir où se perd la pensée,
Dans la data qui veut figer notre âme !
Stable trésor, temple du pur calcul,
Où chaque instant se fige
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