

Mer
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Mer
Bleu, le cyanure du soir
Divine morsure saline
Écume-nous à ton bon vouloir
Rugissant rouleau d’opaline
Dissipe nos acides noirs
En profusion d’eau alcaline
Toi, aigue-marine, l’exutoire
Que tes flots noient nos spleens
Laisse-nous dérader, au vouloir
Vers les idéaux de ces âmes en ruines.


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