The bell rang.
In the church, the priest accompanied by his acolytes went up to the altar.
It is so hot this week, the thermometer passed 40 ° C around 10 o'clock.
It is a confusing day, a ceremony full of rites that I have always believed I have known and that suddenly seem mysterious to me.
Earlier, in the noisy commercial street, loudspeakers were broadcasting messages in a language full of vowels.
There were snow-covered fir trees in the windows and Santa Claus waddling along singing
Jingle Bells
to a bossa-nova tune.
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At the top of a palm tree, I observed a parakeet with purple cheeks tinged with azure blue with a beautiful soft green plumage edged with yellow and a black beak.
The more time passes, the more I forget the song of the sparrows.
But not that of the parakeets.
In Paris, birds with shrill cries fly in a squadron above the Grands Boulevards… Kii-ak!
Kii-ak! ...
A friend with a dark soul and
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