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Journal d'un nomade

Journal d'un nomade

Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever - transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. (O. Henry)


Larmes de bonheur

Gouttes de pluie caressant ma fenêtre

Dessinant vaguement des lettres

Se balançant entre le Néant et l’Être

Tears wash fears

On my window rain falls in tears

Delights my eyes, even my ears

Washes my spleen and all my fears

La ventana de la Nirvana

Gotas de lluvia tocan mi ventana

Suave musica de una triste Gitana

Mi alma perdida encuentra el Nirvana

(Montréal, automne 2009)

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