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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)

Soul for Sale

Âme usée

Ceci peut vous surprendre :

J’ai une âme usée à vendre

Âme fatiguée et sans valeur

Qui mène une vie sans saveur

Elle cache un vide abyssal

Son chagrin est colossal

Mais masochiste par nature

Elle se délecte des tortures

Son acheteur le plus probable

Se nomme Monsieur le Diable…

Soul For Sale

Dear friends, young and old

My poor soul should be sold

Always in gloomy mood

Its shape is not so good

It’s not even a penny worth

Perhaps the worst on Earth

All day soaked in brandy

It enjoys pains like candy

I think I found a good buyer

Mister Devil or his lawyer…

Omar K.

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