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The crow, my crow, is bowing its head. He is always on his iron pillar in the garden, which is part of my modesty. I look at him when I am searching for words or dreaming what virtue lies in this gesture. I can explain it simply: he represents a man who may be sailing over turbulent seas. He usually stands with his lightweight in a feeding trough, now filled, so to speak, with water from the sky; and having been born in a substance of art, he now floats passively, waiting for later. It could also be a gesture of devotion. He longs for the sun or warm air, even if it is for tomorrow and the day after. He is subject to many an earthly sigh like everyone else.
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