1 septembre 2021
https://www.openedition.org/12554 , info:eu-repo/semantics/openAccess
H. Auden W., « Refugee Blues », Presses universitaires de Paris Ouest, ID : 10.4000/books.pupo.8933
Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us. Once we had a country and we thought it fair, Look in the atlas and you’ll find it there: We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now. In the village churchyard there grows an old yew, Every spring it blossoms anew: Old passports can’t do that, my dear, old passports can’t do that. The consul banged the table and said, “If y...