The guys who love kissing up against the doors of the night
And passing them through a finger mark
But the boys who love
There are no
And it is only their shadow
That trembles in the night
stimulating the anger of passers
Their anger their laughter, their scorn
I envy guys who love there are no
They elsewhere are much more distant than the night
Much higher in the bright of day
splendor of their first love
Jacques Prévert
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