**
Translation, for another day. Surely you have read it somewhere. He wrote Charles Baudelaire, the title "A binds passante" and I write today because, friends, how beautiful was the day. We drank wine and yeast have been provided by the adolescent and other things. It was sunny, and there were many trees: ash (I think) and bamboo (safely) and I touched his nose, neck and mane of some beautiful horses. I remembered some of you reading this newspaper, and also some others who do not even know. And French is a language sweet and solemn mouth, like toast with the wine.
Oh, very far from here, late, maybe ever!
I do not know where you flee, you do not know where I go,
O you whoI would have loved, you, you knew!.
More or less. I passed Third Language: French and literature. For if anyone had any doubts. Parbleu!
