The guys who love kissing
standing against the gates of the night
and passers-by passing a finger mark them.
But the kids who love
there are none.
And it is only their shadow
that trembles in the night
stimulating the anger of passers-by, their anger
their contempt for their envy the laughter.
The boys who love there are no
they are much farther elsewhere the night
much higher in the bright of day
splendor of their first love.
Jacques Prevert
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