Si l'hiver pouvait nous décrire ses pensées, il nous susurrerait à l'oreille son amour impossible pour ces fleurs que le printemps lui a volé... Mais l'été passera par là pour que l'automne lui offre, à nouveau, l'illusion que sa chance se représentera... À l'instar de Jean De La Fontaine, aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit à la gloire...
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