Vingt et unime. Nuit. Lundi. Silhouette du capitol dans l'obscurit. Un certain bon rien -- qui sait pourquoi -- a compos le conte que l'amour existe sur terre.
Les gens le croient, peut-tre de la paresse ou de l'ennui, et vivent en consquence: ils attendent ardemment des runions, dpart de crainte, et quand ils chantent, ils chantent au sujet de l'amour.
Mais le secret s'indique certains, et sur eux le silence s'installe J'ai dcouvert ceci par accident et maintenant il semble que je suis malade toute l'heure.
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