Mon verre est plein d'un vin trembleur comme une flamme Ecoutez la chanson lente d'un batelier Qui raconte avoir vu sous la lune sept femmes Tordre leurs cheveux verts et longs jusqu'agrave leurs pieds
Debout chantez plus haut en dansant une ronde Que je n'entende plus le chant du batelier Et mettez pregraves de moi toutes les filles blondes Au regard immobile aux nattes replieacutees
Le Rhin le Rhin est ivre ougrave les vignes se mirent Tout l'or des nuits tombe en tremblant s'y refleacuteter La voix chante toujours agrave en racircle-mourir Ces feacutees aux cheveux verts qui incantent l'eacuteteacute
Mon verre s'est briseacute comme un eacuteclat de rire
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