

L’aiguail
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L’aiguail
La froide coulée d’aiguail
De mon gelide hiver
S’insère dans l’entaille
D’une blessure de chair
Priant, j’aspire à l’insensé
Ne plus sentir la douleur
Boire Léthé, me reposer
Du froid et ses malheurs
Devenir un être celicole
Vivre ivre sans finir meurtri
Survoler les vents d’éole
Et Laisser s’effondrer l’envie


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