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Caroline Wiart


Montmartre, confinement, counting birds (series in progress) Mirage. Paris rediscovered from afar where the blue of the solid sky punctuated the world carved the air with a cobalt billhook and where the horizon cut out filled with the black of the flight of birds resounded with the dark sound of crows with a torn cry was ideal. To intoxicate. Look up at dawn and gargle the song so clear precise so close to the idyllic birds and soaring at the edge of spring drink still in the washed air the green of the tender twigs hope and dream with a...

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