le son de Jefferson Airplane ( moins )

Prométhée Humanitaire rassemble 2 fois par an des créateurs de mode et de décoration autour d'une grande vente animée par 60 bénévoles. La presidente Claire Falisse, vous explique plus en details. Twice a year Prométhée Humanitaire brings together fashion and set designers for a big sale organized by 60 volunteers. The proceeds will go towards the street children cause. Its president and founder Claire Falisse, explains in more details. Prochaine vente au profit des enfants : The next sale for the children: Le 25 mai 2008 - May 25th 2008 Next Step 9-11 cour Debille PARIS 11 Métro Voltaire Entrée - Cover : 2 euros More info: info@prometheehumanitaire.org ( moins )

Africare helps children in rural Tanzania through our Community-based Orphan Care, Protection and Empowerment (COPE) project. "The orphans and vulnerable children now feel that they are like other normal children who have someone that cares." Produced by Students of the World volunteers from Columbia University, 2007. ( moins )

1916 by Motorhëad. 16 years old when I went the war, To fight for a land fit for heroes, God on my side, and a gun in my hand, Chasing my days down to zero, And I marched and I fought and I bled and I died, And I never did get any older, But I knew at the time that a year in the line, Is a long enough life for a soldier, We all volunteered, and we wrote down our names, And we added two years to our ages, Eager for life and ahead of the game, Ready for history's pages, And we brawled and we fought and we whored 'til we stood, Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder, A thirst for the Hun, we were food for the gun, And that's what you are when you're soldiers, I heard my friend cry, and he sank to his knees, Coughing blood as he screamed for his mother, And I fell by his side, and that's how we died, Clinging like kids to each other, And I lay in the mud and the guts and the blood, And I wept as his body grew colder, And I called for my mother and she never came, Though it wasn't my fault and I wasn't to blame, The day not half over and ten thousand slain, And now there's nobody remembers our names, And that's how it is for a soldier. ( moins )