A postcard from hell

This is a postcard sent by what I can make out a soldier (possibly a prisoner of war) from Germany to a lady in Paris in August 1917. This was part of a collection of old letters, some unopened which may never have reached their recipients, and old cards from the beginning of the 20th century showing people having a good time on boats on lakes and all for sale! I think it's strange to be wanting to buy private correspondence from one person meant to another specific person... It's so personal, so unique.... It's a shop dedicated to this sort of hobby (I guess you can call it that). There are stacks and stacks of these letters. It's quite sad really.... In the time when e-mails did not exist, we wrote letters and I have kept nearly all the letters I have received. I guess having no descendents they might also end up on one of these anonymous piles. That piece of my life!

Anyway, someone, an American writer who lives in Paris, said that anything you can think of: there is a shop for it in Paris. I was doubting it at first, having forgotten this letter shop, and when I saw it again, I realized that he was right after all... There are also shops selling old military medals, also old used pipes,old taxidermy, etc...

To go with this picture I would like to post a poem that used to bring me turmoil and a lot of sadness when I read it first at school. It's by Arthur Rimbaud and here is a translation found on the Internet (there is also the original text in French before the translation):

Le Dormeur du Val

C’est un trou de verdure, où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit: c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l’herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme.
Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

Arthur Rimbaud 1870

English Translation – The Valley’s Sleeper

It’s a hollow of green, where a river sings
Crazily hanging its silvery rags on the foliage
Where the sun from the proud mountain
Shines: it’s a little valley, frothing with sunshine.

A young soldier sleeps, open-mouthed, bare-headed
And the nape of his neck bathing in the cool blue watercress;
He is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale in his green bed, where the light rains upon him

His feet amongst the gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling
The way a poorly child would smile; he is napping:
Nature, hold him warmly: he is cold.

Perfumes no longer make his nose quiver;
He sleeps in the sunshine, his hand on his chest,
Tranquil. He has two red holes in his right side.