lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllLa brume s'échevèle au détour des allées,llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllUn souvenir épars s'attarde et se recueille,llllllllll"lll
lllllllllllll.Il flotte une douceur de choses en alléesllllllll-""llll
ll"Un songe glisse en nous, comme un pas sur les feuilles.lll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllll"llLes jardins de Novembre accueillent vos amours,llll"lll
lllllllllllllllÔ jeunesse pensive, Ô saison dissolvante,lllllllllllll
lllll"lllLes grands jardins mélancoliques et qui sententlll"lllll
llll"llllLa fin, la pluie - odeurs humides de l'air lourd,llll"llllll
lllllllllllllDe choses mortes qui retournent à la terre.llllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llll"lllllIris mauves aux parfums âcres, aux tiges pâles,llllllllll
llllllll"lllllPloyés un peu, et qui se fanent, solitaires,llll"llllllll
lll"lllllEt laissent tristement pendre leurs longs pétalesl"lllllll
ll"lTransparents, trop veinés, trop fins - comme une lèvrelllll
lllllllllllllDont les baisers ont bu le sang et la tiédeurlllllll"llll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllCherche encore une bouche où poser sa langueur.lllllll
lllllllLe grand jardin brumeux sommeille. Sourde fièvrelllllll
lllllllllllllllÔ parfums trop aigus des iris et des roseslllllllllllllll
llllllllllFlétris - parfums et mort - serre chaude d'odeurs.llll"lll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
llllllllllTout l'univers mourant qui s'épuise en senteursllllllllll
lllllll"llllEt puis dans la tristesse odorante des chosesllllllllllll
llllllll"lllEffeuillant, inclinant, chaque fleur du jardinllllllllllll
lllllll"llllD'un battement furtif, égal et doux, se posell"llllllllll
lllllllllll"llllllL'aile silencieuse et lasse du déclin.lllll"llllllllllll
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
