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lllllllllllllLe soir, au coin du feu, j'ai pensé bien des foislllllllllllll
lllllllllllllÀ la mort d'un oiseau, quelque part, dans les bois.lllllllllll
lllllllllllllllPendant les tristes jours de l'hiver monotone,llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllLes pauvres nids déserts, les nids qu'on abandonne,lllllllllll
llllllllllllllllSe balancent au vent sur un ciel gris de fer.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllOh ! comme les oiseaux doivent mourir l'hiver !lllllllllllll
llllllllllllllPourtant, lorsque viendra le temps des violettes,llllllllllll
llllllllllllllNous ne trouverons pas leurs délicats squeletteslllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllDans le gazon d'avril, où nous irons courir.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllEst-ce que les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir ?lllllllllllll
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