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A squirrel, on the heather, washes
himself with light.
A dead leaf descends,
gently carried by the wind.
And the wind swings the leaf
Just above the squirrel;
the wind waits, to put it down,
Slightly on the heather,
Let the squirrel be raised
On the oak of the clearing
Where he likes to swing
Like a leaf of light.
Maurice Carême
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