la vie poussière de larmes
gouttelettes vibrantes
au seuil de nos rêves
déposées au jardin
coule sous la source
l’eau sale et dormante
de nos désirs fanés
être né pour dormir
non pas rêver
dormir comme un secret
dormir comme un matin
et mourir mourir peut-être
aux ordres d’un serment lointain
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