Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.

A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.

Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.

Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.

Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015

YA FREAK YA FREAK


WHAT IS A FREAK, IS IT SOMEONE WHO IS DIFFERENT CAUSE THE WORLD IS SO WRONG

IS IT A PERSON WHO LOVES LIFE, BUT DOESN’T TELL ANYONE

I AM NO FREAK, I AM A COOL PERSON, I SIT AND DO MY TAPESTRY

LIKE THE ARTIST YOU CAN SEE IN ME

MY VERSION OF A FREAK IS SOMEONE WHO HATES HEAVY METAL, CAUSE HEAVY METAL IS RADICAL, DUDE

I LIKE AC/DC, AND MOTLEY CRUE AND I ESPECIALLY LOVE MOTORHEAD

THAT IS WHY I LIKED MY FRIEND PATRICK, CAUSE HE LIUKED OR APPEARED TO LIKE HEAVY METAL MUSIC, I AM NO FREAK

AND IF YA CALL ME A FREAK, I WILL BE UPSET, CAUSE, DUDES

I LOVE JUDAS PRIEST, I LOVE JIMMY BARNES, AND THE ONLY REASON WHY I LIKE COMPUTERS

IS SO I CAN KEEP IN CONTACT WITH THE WORLD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT, DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

IT MAKES ME A COOL PERSON WHO LOVES HEAVY METAL MUSIC

I WANT TO TAKE THE GEEK OUT OF COMPUTERS, CAUSE GEEKS CALL PEOPLE LIKE ME A FREAK

I LIKE TO PARTY IN CLUBS, AND I LIKE TO GO TO THE FOOTY, AND MUCK WITH THE FOOTY FANS

I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A FREAK, BUT WHAT IS A FREAK

I TELL YA WHAT IS A FREAK, I AM NO FREAK, I LOVE THE COOL PEOPLE WHO GO TO HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

SURE I AM NICE TO MY MUM, BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE ME A FREAK THOUGH

I JUST AM A VERY NICE PERSON, PEOPLE WHO CALL ME A FREAK ARE THE ONLY FREAKS

COMPUTERS ARE FUN, NONE OF THIS DOS ****, THAT IS FOR THE FREAKS

I LIKE COMPUTERS TO SHARE MY WRITING AND MY ART, AND TO ENTERTAIN

I DON’T WANT TO BE THOSE QUEER PEOPLE WHO ARE TOTALLY GENTLE, I DON’T DO GENTLE

I DO COOL, AND I AM COOL, I’M COOL MAN, COOL YOU, YEAH COOL ME, I AM A BOY ANYWAY

I KNOW YOUR A BOY BRIAN MMMMMMMMMMM YOUR A BOY MMMMMMMM I AM A COMPUTER **** KID, I AM NO GEEK OR NERD MY MATE

GEEKS OR FREAKS ARE PEOPLE WHO HATE COMPUTERS, CAUSE THEY CAN’T GET PAST THE ADULT

I AM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK I LIKE COMPUTERS FOR CREATIVITY YA SEE

I WANT THE HEAVY METAL FANS TO LIKE ME, CAUSE YOUTUBE IS THE PLACE YOU CAN WATCH HEAVY METAL FOR FREE

ANY BAND IS COOL, HEAVY METAL MUSIC IS THE BEST MUSIC OF ALL, TO GET YA SOX OFF AND REALL PARTY HARDY WON’T STARTY

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM A YOUTUBE ******, AN INTERNET ******, I HATE PEOPLE TREATING ME L;ILE A FREAK CAUSE THEY ARE JEALOUS

I DON’T WANT TO GET KILLED OR KIDNAPPED, OR ANYTHING, BUT I AM NOT SHY TO L.OVE COMPUTERS

I WISH THE WORLD WOULD STOP TREATING ME LIKE A FREAK, MY COMPUTER LIKES ARE

HEAVY METAL CONCERTS

LEARNING ABOUT THE WORLD

PUTTING MY ART ONLINE THROUGH ART COLONY

FINDING THE PERFECT PARTY SO I CAN SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD THROUGH YOUTUBE

TO FIND WRITING GROUPS LIKE FOCUS ON FICTION

OLD TV SHOWS I USED TO LOVE LIKE BECKER AND CHARLES IN CHARGE, ETC ETC

I WATCH A LOT OF TED DANSON’S BECKER, YA COULD SAY, I AM A BECKER MANIAC

THERE ARE MANY MORE, I ALSO HAVE SHOWS SHOWING THAT I CAN STICK AT DOING TAPESTRIES, BY INSPIRING PEOP,LE TO BE CREATIVITY

I HATE PEOPLE SAYING I AM TOO WOOSEY TO, TO GOOD ART, BUT OPEOPLE WHO SAY THAT, ARE THE BIGGEST FREAKS AROUND

IF PAT HATES HEAVY METAL,HE IS A FREAK, CAUSE HE HAD A FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT, WHEN HE MUCKED AROUND WITH ME

HE GOT ME INTO LOVING HEAVY METAL, AND STOP WORRYING WHAT PEOPLE THINK, I DON’T CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK

I AM AN ARTIST, I AIN’T NO FREAK, I AM A WRITER I AIN’T NO FREAK I AM A YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER AND INSPIRER I AIN’T NO FREAK

I DO MY TAPESTRY ON YOUTUBE TO SHOW MY STAYING POWER, AND I HAVE STAYING POWER, REAL STAYING POWER

I THOUGHT DAD WAS TREATING ME LIKE A WRITER WHEN HE SAID I WAS LIKE OS, SO TO SPEAK

I AM NOT A FREAK, I AM STILL A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE, WHO IS FINE WITH HIS VIRGINITY

I DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, CAUSE I HAVEN’T HAD ***, I CXALL FREAKS, PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY ARE YOUNG WITH NO SOCIAL MEDIA

I AM ON FACE BOOK AND YOUTUBE, AND I HAVE A STRONG QUOTA ON THE INTERNET, I ASM NO FREAK, I AM NO GEEK

I AM THE COOLEST DUDE IN CANBERRA, AND THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT

I THINK MY OLD MATES ARE LIVING IN THE PAST WITH ME, EVERYBODY MAKES MISTAKES, EVERYONE HAS THOSEC DAYS

COME ON DUDES, GIVE ME A BREAK, I AM A LITTLE YOUNG DUDE WHO LOVES TO PARTY WITH HEAVY METAL MUSIC LIKE ACCCA DACCA

AND MOTLEY CRUE, AND I WATCH THE CONCERT ON YOUTUBE, DUDES, ALL THE BLASTED DAY LONG

DON’T CALL ME A FREAK, YOUR A FREAK, ESPECIALLY IF YA THINK I HATE PARTYING, I LOVE PARTYING, IT’S COOL FOR ME

Thousand minstrels woke within me,
"Our music's in the hills; "—
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
Up!—If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beech and pine,
High over the river intervals,
Above the ploughman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls;—
Up!—where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the purging landscape's swell.
Let not unto the stones the day
Her lily and rose, her sea and land display;
Read the celestial sign!
Lo! the South answers to the North;
Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;
A greater Spirit bids thee forth,
Than the gray dreams which thee detain.

Mark how the climbing Oreads
Beckon thee to their arcades;
Youth, for a moment free as they,
Teach thy feet to feel the ground,
Ere yet arrive the wintry day
When Time thy feet has bound.
Accept the bounty of thy birth;
Taste the lordship of the earth.

I heard and I obeyed,
Assured that he who pressed the claim,
Well-known, but loving not a name,
Was not to be gainsaid.

Ere yet the summoning voice was still,
I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.
From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed
Like ample banner flung abroad
Round about, a hundred miles,
With invitation to the sea, and to the bordering isles.

In his own loom's garment drest,
By his own bounty blest,
Fast abides this constant giver,
Pouring many a cheerful river;
To far eyes, an aërial isle,
Unploughed, which finer spirits pile,
Which morn and crimson evening paint
For bard, for lover, and for saint;
The country's core,
Inspirer, prophet evermore,
Pillar which God aloft had set
So that men might it not forget,
It should be their life's ornament,
And mix itself with each event;
Their calendar and dial,
Barometer, and chemic phial,
Garden of berries, perch of birds,
Pasture of pool-haunting herds,
Graced by each change of sum untold,
Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.

The Titan minds his sky-affairs,
Rich rents and wide alliance shares;
Mysteries of color daily laid
By the great sun in light and shade,
And, sweet varieties of chance,
And the mystic seasons' dance,
And thief-like step of liberal hours
Which thawed the snow-drift into flowers.
O wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science done and shown!
Happy, I said, whose home is here,
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!
Boon nature to his poorest shed
Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.
Intent I searched the region round,
And in low hut my monarch found.
He was no eagle and no earl,
Alas! my foundling was a churl,
With heart of cat, and eyes of bug,
Dull victim of his pipe and mug;
Woe is me for my hopes' downfall!
Lord! is yon squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed
For God's vicegerency and stead?
Time out of mind this forge of ores,
Quarry of spars in mountain pores,
Old cradle, hunting ground, and bier
Of wolf and otter, bear, and deer;
Well-built abode of many a race;
Tower of observance searching space;
Factory of river, and of rain;
Link in the alps' globe-girding chain;
By million changes skilled to tell
What in the Eternal standeth well,
And what obedient nature can,—
Is this colossal talisman
Kindly to creature, blood, and kind,
And speechless to the master's mind?

I thought to find the patriots
In whom the stock of freedom roots.
To myself I oft recount
Tales of many a famous mount.—
Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells,
Roys, and Scanderbegs, and Tells.
Here now shall nature crowd her powers,
Her music, and her meteors,
And, lifting man to the blue deep
Where stars their perfect courses keep,
Like wise preceptor lure his eye
To sound the science of the sky,
And carry learning to its height
Of untried power and sane delight;
The Indian cheer, the frosty skies
Breed purer wits, inventive eyes,
Eyes that frame cities where none be,
And hands that stablish what these see:
And, by the moral of his place,
Hint summits of heroic grace;
Man in these crags a fastness find
To fight pollution of the mind;
In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,
Adhere like this foundation strong,
The insanity of towns to stem
With simpleness for stratagem.
But if the brave old mould is broke,
And end in clowns the mountain-folk,
In tavern cheer and tavern joke,—
Sink, O mountain! in the swamp,
Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lap!
Perish like leaves the highland breed!
No sire survive, no son succeed!

Soft! let not the offended muse
Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.
Many hamlets sought I then,
Many farms of mountain men;—
Found I not a minstrel seed,
But men of bone, and good at need.
Rallying round a parish steeple
Nestle warm the highland people,
Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,
Strong as giant, slow as child,
Smoking in a squalid room,
Where yet the westland breezes come.
Close hid in those rough guises lurk
Western magians, here they work;
Sweat and season are their arts,
Their talismans are ploughs and carts;
And well the youngest can command
Honey from the frozen land,
With sweet hay the swamp adorn,
Change the running sand to corn,
For wolves and foxes, lowing herds,
And for cold mosses, cream and curds;
Weave wood to canisters and mats,
Drain sweet maple-juice in vats.
No bird is safe that cuts the air,
From their rifle or their snare;
No fish in river or in lake,
But their long hands it thence will take;
And the country's iron face
Like wax their fashioning skill betrays,
To fill the hollows, sink the hills,
Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,
And fit the bleak and howling place
For gardens of a finer race,
The world-soul knows his own affair,
Fore-looking when his hands prepare
For the next ages men of mould,
Well embodied, well ensouled,
He cools the present's fiery glow,
Sets the life pulse strong, but slow.
Bitter winds and fasts austere.
His quarantines and grottos, where
He slowly cures decrepit flesh,
And brings it infantile and fresh.
These exercises are the toys
And games with which he breathes his boys.
They bide their time, and well can prove,
If need were, their line from Jove,
Of the same stuff, and so allayed,
As that whereof the sun is made;
And of that fibre quick and strong
Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.
Now in sordid weeds they sleep,
Their secret now in dulness keep.
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,
These the masters who can teach,
Fourscore or a hundred words
All their vocal muse affords,
These they turn in other fashion
Than the writer or the parson.
I can spare the college-bell,
And the learned lecture well.
Spare the clergy and libraries,
Institutes and dictionaries,
For the hardy English root
Thrives here unvalued underfoot.
Rude poets of the tavern hearth,
Squandering your unquoted mirth,
Which keeps the ground and never soars,
While Jake retorts and Reuben roars,
Tough and screaming as birch-bark,
Goes like bullet to its mark,
While the solid curse and jeer
Never balk the waiting ear:
To student ears keen-relished jokes
On truck, and stock, and farming-folks,—
Nought the mountain yields thereof
But savage health and sinews tough.

On the summit as I stood,
O'er the wide floor of plain and flood,
Seemed to me the towering hill
Was not altogether still,
But a quiet sense conveyed;
If I err not, thus it said:

Many feet in summer seek
Betimes my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter-time,
None save dappling shadows climb
Under clouds my lonely head,
Old as the sun, old almost as the shade.
And comest thou
To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?
And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand,
And would'st be my companion,
Where I gaze
And shall gaze
When forests fall, and man is gone,
Over tribes and over times
As the burning Lyre
Nearing me,
With its stars of northern fire,
In many a thousand years.

Ah! welcome, if thou bring
My secret in thy brain;
To mountain-top may muse's wing
With good allowance strain.
Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Tis the law of bush and stone—
Each can only take his own.
Let him heed who can and will,—
Enchantment fixed me here
To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.
If thou trowest
How the chemic eddies play
Pole to pole, and what they say,
And that these gray crags
Not on crags are hung,
But beads are of a rosary
On prayer and music strung;
And, credulous, through the granite seeming
Seest the smile of Reason beaming;
Can thy style-discerning eye
The hidden-working Builder spy,
Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snow-flake's flight;
Knowest thou this?
O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!
Already my rocks lie light,
And soon my cone will spin.
For the world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune,
Rhyme the pipe, and time the warder,
Cannot forget the sun, the moon.
Orb and atom forth they prance,
When they hear from far the rune,
None so backward in the troop,
When the music and the dance
Reach his place and circumstance,
But knows the sun-creating sound,
And, though a pyramid, will bound.

Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among,
But well I know, no mountain can
Measure with a perfect man;
For it is on Zodiack's writ,
Adamant is soft to wit;
And when the greater comes again,
With my music in his brain,
I shall pass as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.

Through all time
I hear the approaching feet
Along the flinty pathway beat
Of him that cometh, and shall come,—
Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As now the round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams,
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.

Every morn I lift my head,
Gaze o'er New England underspread
South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katshill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,
I await the bard and sage,
Who in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour,
This mound shall throb his face before,
As when with inward fires and pain
It rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed
From this well-spring in my head
Fountain drop of spicier worth
Than all vintage of the earth.
There's fruit upon my barren soil
Costlier far than wine or oil;
There's a berry blue and gold,—
Autumn-ripe its juices hold,
Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,
Asia's rancor, Athens' art,
Slowsure Britain's secular might,
And the German's inward sight;
I will give my son to eat
Best of Pan's immortal meat,
Bread to eat and juice to drink,
So the thoughts that he shall think
Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,
Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars.

He comes, but not of that race bred
Who daily climb my specular head.
Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South-Cove and City-wharf;
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,—
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow;
Open the daunting map beneath,—
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;
His day's ride is a furlong space,
His city tops a glimmering haze:
I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;—
See there the grim gray rounding
Of the bullet of the earth
Whereon ye sail,
Tumbling steep
In the uncontinented deep;—
He looks on that, and he turns pale:
'Tis even so, this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on for ever,
And he, poor parasite,—
Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not,—
Risk or ruin he must share.
I scowl on him with my cloud,
With my north wind chill his blood,
I lame him clattering down the rocks,
And to live he is in fear.
Then, at last, I let him down
Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter frightened to his clan,
And forget me, if he can.
As in the old poetic fame
The gods are blind and lame,
And the simular despite
Betrays the more abounding might,
So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve:
It is pure use;
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind,
Of a celestial Ceres, and the Muse?

Ages are thy days,
Thou grand expressor of the present tense,
And type of permanence,
Firm ensign of the fatal Being,
Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief
That will not bide the seeing.
Hither we bring
Our insect miseries to the rocks,
And the whole flight with pestering wing
Vanish and end their murmuring,
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which, who can tell what mason laid?
Spoils of a front none need restore,
Replacing frieze and architrave;
Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave,
Still is the haughty pile *****
Of the old building Intellect.
Complement of human kind,
Having us at vantage still,
Our sumptuous indigence,
O barren mound! thy plenties fill.
We fool and prate,—
Thou art silent and sedate.
To million kinds and times one sense
The constant mountain doth dispense,
Shedding on all its snows and leaves,
One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.
Thou seest, O watchman tall!
Our towns and races grow and fall,
And imagest the stable Good
For which we all our lifetime *****,
In shifting form the formless mind;
And though the substance us elude,
We in thee the shadow find.
Thou in our astronomy
An opaker star,
Seen, haply, from afar,
Above the horizon's hoop.
A moment by the railway troop,
As o'er some bolder height they speed,—
By circumspect ambition,
By errant Gain,
By feasters, and the frivolous,—
Recallest us,
And makest sane.
Mute orator! well-skilled to plead,
And send conviction without phrase,
Thou dost supply
The shortness of our days,
And promise, on thy Founder's truth,
Long morrow to this mortal youth.

I. TO DIONYSUS (21 lines) (1)

((LACUNA))

(ll. 1-9) For some say, at Dracanum; and some, on windy Icarus;
and some, in Naxos, O Heaven-born, Insewn (2); and others by the
deep-eddying river Alpheus that pregnant Semele bare you to Zeus
the thunder-lover.  And others yet, lord, say you were born in
Thebes; but all these lie.  The Father of men and gods gave you
birth remote from men and secretly from white-armed Hera.  There
is a certain Nysa, a mountain most high and richly grown with
woods, far off in Phoenice, near the streams of Aegyptus.

((LACUNA))

(ll. 10-12) '...and men will lay up for her (3) many offerings in
her shrines.  And as these things are three (4), so shall mortals
ever sacrifice perfect hecatombs to you at your feasts each three
years.'

(ll. 13-16) The Son of Cronos spoke and nodded with his dark
brows.  And the divine locks of the king flowed forward from his
immortal head, and he made great Olympus reel.  So spake wise
Zeus and ordained it with a nod.

(ll. 17-21) Be favourable, O Insewn, Inspirer of frenzied women!
we singers sing of you as we begin and as we end a strain, and
none forgetting you may call holy song to mind.  And so,
farewell, Dionysus, Insewn, with your mother Semele whom men call
Thyone.

__
The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by:
Online Medieval and Classical Library.
Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Rakesh Rai is as sweet as sugar;
Whenever you are in deep anger
Go to Rakesh, Anti-hatemonger;
He never his duties did Malinger
He has been as sweet as sugar;
Sooths one down and is eager
To help whom problems appear.
I never found him an Ogre;
With him I always felt stronger
He can easily fight wildest tiger.
He is a tiger in education stronger
Who advised to stay Sanket eager;
But as I had Monorhyme dearer
I left such a strong man ever.
Regret though Sanket have, Sugar
Will leave me and my poem never.
Problems does not persist longer
With him let it be old or younger.
With him tensions, no doubt, linger
A lot of worry and threats augur,
What use is Salad without vinegar;
Hard but useful is Rakesh like timber.
Rakesh sir is as sweet as sugar.

Says to She causes she is me
The sun she seeks
Is the truth she speaks
Light like radiant beams
That breaks the dark
To soften each broken heart
And bring the warmer affections
To those who have been neglected
To calm furies that should not exist
And stoke the flames of rage
Where anger needs to persist
To help people resist
The chains that try and tie us down
To give every artist the wings
Of the Angelic hosts who in rebelling sing
Of freedom from an eternal being
Let her be the better part of humanity
So when this oval earth egg
Loses her loving presence
There will still be a bit of her essence
Left to linger and inspire
This human race to be les bitter
And much, much better

« Vraiment, ma chère, vous me fatiguez sans mesure et sans pitié ; on dirait, à vous entendre soupirer, que vous souffrez plus que les glaneuses sexagénaires et que les vieilles mendiantes qui ramassent des croûtes de pain à la porte des cabarets.

« Si au moins vos soupirs exprimaient le remords, ils vous feraient quelque honneur ; mais ils ne traduisent que la satiété du bien-être et l'accablement du repos. Et puis, vous ne cessez de vous répandre en paroles inutiles : « Aimez-moi bien ! j'en ai tant besoin ! Consolez-moi par-ci, caressez-moi par-là ! » Tenez, je veux essayer de vous guérir ; nous en trouverons peut-être le moyen, pour deux sols, au milieu d'une fête, et sans aller bien ****.

« Considérons bien, je vous prie, cette solide cage de fer derrière laquelle s'agite, hurlant comme un damné, secouant les barreaux comme un orang-outang exaspéré par l'exil, imitant, dans la perfection, tantôt les bonds circulaires du tigre, tantôt les dandinements stupides de l'ours blanc, ce monstre poilu dont la forme imite assez vaguement la vôtre.

« Ce monstre est un de ces animaux qu'on appelle généralement « mon ange ! » c'est-à-dire une femme. L'autre monstre, celui qui crie à tue-tête, un bâton à la main, est un mari. Il a enchaîné sa femme légitime comme une bête, et il la montre dans les faubourgs, les jours de foire, avec permission des magistrats, cela va sans dire.

« Faites bien attention ! Voyez avec quelle voracité (non simulée peut-être !) elle déchire des lapins vivants et des volailles pialliantes que lui jette son cornac. « Allons, dit-il, il ne faut pas manger tout son bien en un jour, » et, sur cette sage parole, il lui arrache cruellement la proie, dont les boyaux dévidés restent un instant accrochés aux dents de la bête féroce, de la femme, veux-je dire.

« Allons ! un bon coup de bâton pour la calmer ! car elle darde des yeux terribles de convoitise sur la nourriture enlevée. Grand Dieu ! le bâton n'est pas un bâton de comédie, avez-vous entendu résonner la chair, malgré le poil postiche ? Aussi les yeux lui sortent maintenant de la tête, elle hurle plus naturellement. Dans sa rage, elle étincelle tout entière, comme le fer qu'on bat.

« Telles sont les mœurs conjugales de ces deux descendants d'Ève et d'Adam, ces œuvres de vos mains, ô mon Dieu ! Cette femme est incontestablement malheureuse, quoique après tout, peut-être, les jouissances titillantes de la gloire ne lui soient pas inconnues. Il y a des malheurs plus irrémédiables, et sans compensation. Mais dans le monde où elle a été jetée, elle n'a jamais pu croire que la femme méritât une autre destinée.

« Maintenant, à nous deux, chère précieuse ! À voir les enfers dont le monde est peuplé, que voulez-vous que je pense de votre joli enfer, vous qui ne reposez que sur des étoffes aussi douces que votre peau, qui ne mangez que de la viande cuite, et pour qui un domestique habile prend soin de découper les morceaux ?

« Et que peuvent signifier pour moi tous ces petits soupirs qui gonflent votre poitrine parfumée, robuste coquette ? Et toutes ces affectations apprises dans les livres, et cette infatigable mélancolie, faite pour inspirer au spectateur un tout autre sentiment que la pitié ? En vérité, il me prend quelquefois envie de vous apprendre ce que c'est que le vrai malheur.

« À vous voir ainsi, ma belle délicate, les pieds dans la fange et les yeux tournés vaporeusement vers le ciel, comme pour lui demander un roi, on dirait vraisemblablement une jeune grenouille qui invoquerait l'idéal. Si vous méprisez le soliveau (ce que je suis maintenant, comme vous savez bien), gare la grue qui vous croquera, vous gobera et vous tuera à son plaisir !

« Tant poète que je sois, je ne suis pas aussi dupe que vous voudriez le croire, et si vous me fatiguez trop souvent de vos precieuses pleurnicheries, je vous traiterai en femme sauvage, ou le vous jetterai par la fenêtre, comme une bouteille vide. »

So you ask the difference
Between prose and poetry

Prose is just... prose

But poetry is a song
An entire universe, coming full circle
Poetry beats with my heartbeat
And it sings, but in a melody
Of words and midnight thoughts
Of strong coffee and dreamy haze
The mix of noise and silence
Poetry matches the rhythm of my feet
Tip-tap-tap, tip-tap-tap, it goes  
It climbs slopes and mountains
Varying in speed and delivery   
And descends, slowly, sliding into a pool of emotions
10,000 degrees of sadness and happiness
In each verse of the poet
Poetry is destruction and creation
Of the old and the new
Of statements and opinions
Of the paradaox of our age
Things built and unbuilt,
Broken and assembled
Like a lego model of complications
Poetry is revolt and revolution at the same time
It is a chant for liberation
That cannot be overcome by dominance
Or by any evil things of these times
Poetry is the hope of the protest
And the push for change
Waiting patiently, just going over the edge
About to burst not into flames but butterflies
And clear skies, Sunday morning sunlight
Like yellowed novel pages
Poetry will turn you inside out
Bare the soul and tear the flesh
Scatter the foundation of bones
Until you wonder and ponder
Over your very existence
Poetry is everywhere
And by everywhere, I mean, especially your toilet
Best thought out on the ***
Poetry is a word search with infinite vocabulary
Hoping to cross out as many as possible
But it never ends
Poetry is in the shade of your backyard tree
Of the things in this world that cannot speak
So we speak for them
It is the shout of the left-out, marginal, never-really-existing people
Poetry is life given to those who would not have had one
It is a Christmas sock for the soul
Comforting and warm, cherished in all forms
Poetry is writing poems for yourself and reading them in front of the mirror
And at the same time
Standing in a bazaar and waving your arms
Among cows and vegetables and chaat
Shouting, "Listen to me! I've got something to say!"
Poetry is getaway
In corners and edges
It is trying to escape everything real
And wanting the surreal
It is the 1 o'clock fantasies
Riding on waves, pirates of my own land
Middle Earth and elves, the adventures of dwarf lads
Poetry is the life-changer, the inspirer
The 'you'll be alright'
And 'next time buddy'
To every exam failed, every heartbreak
The arm on the shoulder, the pat on the back  

Poetry is... A lot of things
But most importantly,
Poetry is you
It's in the whispers of you singing in the shower
It is your ugly, spit flying, gums showing laughter on the terrace
It is how you snuggle right into my emptiness

Poetry is the answer
To my 6 year old adopted kid's question
When he walks in with my 10 adopted dogs
And asks me,
"Mom, what is everything made of?"
I'll first tell him that matter is made up of atoms
Because, of course, he needs to be scientifically correct
But then I'll add that everything is made of poetry too, there's not much difference

See, prose is just prose
But poetry is not 'just poetry'

Chapter XVIII
Parapsychological Plot

They were in the parapsychological hypnosis session all undaunted by everything that could happen. The journey of a life through the hidden spaces of past existence was a reality. It all begins in antiquity where Vernarth was hypno transported to meet his inmates and comrades. He proved to be a great defender of libertarian ideals and above all not to betray his formation of great leadership of the greatest empire, with his immeasurable feats of achievement, of this super experience of reunion for a world past to more reunions for having lived and relive them again.

The master director of this great feat, acknowledged never having attended something that is compared to him, it is an unprecedented fact that would mark a new milestone in his specialty and the study of parasychology. The doctor together with his assistants arranged to reevaluate a new systemic therapy policy, in exchange for their own way of life, generating the largest plan of the episode of intercommunicativeness to planes and dimensions of the ancestral memory of the entire created world and those that its beneficiaries have been able to verify.
In the immediate vicinity of the clinical consultation, hundreds of people, curious, journalists and the media gambled. To which one of them asks the doctor:

Journalist: Dear Sir, I would have a coffee ... just when I heard about this great news. We decided to come to his interview. I consult you. What has been the greatest content that has differentiated this from the rest of the procedures that you have carried out, and how will your future method be to reconvert your specialty?

Parapsychologist says:  there are undoubtedly innumerable connections in our life and beyond ...., But now I have found routes that I did not think I was capable of knowing at this point. And I think that now they will be more than I could count in my entire active professional life.

At that moment, his assistant called him urgently to tell him that an emergency had arisen. They both rush in and enter the cabin. And they manage to perceive that Vernarth was with the clothes on a sofa from the time of the exploits of 331 a. C. requested that they excuse him for his demands and needs, but he had a lot to propose and deliver to his comrades who were in Bumodos. Considering his beloved wife, Walekiria, who was as always preparing elixirs and essences for the restoration of the recipe for his chest and limbs. He had an urge to improve this whole process before the next Ekadashi, to enlist with new stages of his worksheet. Surely he should return to Patmos to take over the pantry and library of Saint John the Evangelist. He had to restore local buildings, house rooms, temples, regional development works, and regional art. Another elementary task was to take care of agriculture, and obey Hera's designs, for the next millennia to re-awaken from the cultures that survive on themselves. “Another of their great passionate obligations was to ride through Macedonia for the sunrises that run through the grasslands of grass and the swarm of hieratic insects, when the Oracle of Dodona made them polish their germinated seeds in the arms of dawn turned into Fireflies. He flew with his horse, appearing to be acclaimed from all over the world for his “Liturgical Conclave”. To surrender in its entirety to the pazos  of time on their Alikanto, beyond all the Eras and Millennia incapable of evading the disgraced ways by consolidating a new firmament. ”
Countless times Vernarth and Alikanto are seen crashing into the gleaming valleys and shores, encapsulated in the fields with the golden hooves of their steed, ushering in a new rebirth of their adventures, which are more than the same as God would entrust to a individual anxious to reissue Genesis or a new collaborative proposal with the Evangelist in Patmos.

Parapsychological Session resumes:
Vernarth, wake up. And she comments to those who accompanied her. ” I thought that as a child playing with weapons was only entertainment. Today I have realized that this never ends. Now I know that they are waiting for me in Patmos”. He quickly says goodbye to everyone and the rest remain undaunted by such a decision. Vernarth continues; I'm leaving with Raeder and his pelican Petrobus. Alikantus is also grazing for this long journey. Even every time he takes me away, he gets an allergy in his nose that makes him lose his nose. But my magic steed laughs at the ridicule and the decline of all doubts imposed on it. From Gaugamela who has had intermittences with his nose, but we will arrive at Patmos. The afternoon is darkening and is tinged with predominant whitish-white colors; Raeder arrived, entering through the large gentle window. They were preparing to begin the journey.

Vernarth greets him with a gesture of courtesy to Raeder, who offered to leave running from the new exile, it would be one more contingency. From that moment, he stood in front of Petrobus. Telling you; The Great Hour is undefeated in the face of the setback, it will be a great amenity to be with it.
Petrobus says: Greetings my lord! With my master Raeder we have been attentive to this moment, to overcome the best wishes of taking him to the Dodecanese and then from there to the Grotto of Patmos.  Where well known will be welcome in the house of the Evangelist. The time has come to leave ...!

“At that moment, Vernarth remembers an animal that was in a forest when he went to collect species as a child. He lunged at the animal; Vernarth looked at him squarely, then left. The animal followed him walking for several hours, until suddenly he looked to the side and was gone. He still misses this entire magical continuous event and with this cycled image of the animal kingdom. When he was preparing to arrive at his palace almost at night, he appears again before him, the animal showing him the desire to accompany him. Vernarth  looks at him and they start running, each time imposing more speed on the go. Vernarth screamed with contagious laughter and happiness. While his companion fired circulating cries that were confused with soft longings to address him by the middle ear and rule him. But beyond there, they both laughed almost turning and merging two into oneself, festively eager to laugh at the secretion that every man fills his soul, have another similar competing in a race without knowing where to go ... or why to leave? . "

React from that moment; Petrobus was blowing the room with strong and swirling winds. Raeder takes Petrobus by his golden feet and prepares for the journey.
Raeder says: Vernarth await us! We have to suspend ourselves at the dawn that glides through the winds of the wheat fields of the Dodecanseso. Petrobus will go near the iris of the great atmospheres, and will be supported by the great masses of winds that will take us to Greece. We intuit that Kanti, will then pass to escort us and join our events beyond the bend where the guidelines collide where the sea and the sky end, where Zeus will give us the good things.
  
Parasicological ellipsis in Piacenza:
Piacenza, Italy in 1887. It was right here where all the parapsychological regression was carried out. In the two-story house, he had two feline pets; Rannura and Catutto and three Tupac dogs, and three Canela and Bianca females, followed by Mara. These mysterious and resilient cats, at night they used to scare their inhabitants changing the tone of their meows by those of large beasts. But generally they were seen sleeping in their bedroom, one of them looked at them from the closet and pondered a compliment. The other was quiet near the feet of some of the two from Vernarth or Walekiria.

Its dwelling It is located in the padana plain at an altitude of 61 meters above sea level, on the south bank of the Po when the bushes change in autumn to the average of adult trees and the Trebia river meets in the west and the Nure torrent in the east from the city. She was always going to trek a few kilometers south, close to the slopes of the Piacenza hills, the first propagations of the Ligurian Apennines. Here they all passed through together, in such a way that there was no time to clean up or calm down in trifles. It was all playful diplomacy. Even when they rested, the pets teased him to continue with the ritual of running and running in circles through the groves, some flowery for ***, yellow lantanas, ornamental citrus etc. And why not name Pyramid Cypress or cemeteries...

Here his brother Etréstles always came in the spring with Drestnia from Messolonghi, Greece. Lía, the Muse who loved them both when they attended the Tuscan festival, usually came to visit him. Where he met Maddalena Tressi,  her greatest fortune teller of her regressive ancestral journeys, great inspirer of her artistic, religious and secular works at a great spring carnival. Whose name derives from the one used by Greeks and Latins to designate the lands occupied by the Etruscans, a territory of fertile plains surrounded by the main mountain ranges. The Tuscan landscape is characterized by the undulations that form the hills invaded by vineyards, olive trees and cypresses, especially in the footsteps of the Troncosada, which were and will be reunions of Italian families, of which there is no support or limestone that remains intact to its omnipresence.

In 790, a capitular of the Carolingian king of Italy, Pipino, in whom he acted on behalf of his father Charlemagne, prohibited the citizens of Piacenza by deliberately granting citizenship to those who depended on the king, thus allowing someone to escape control of this. The prohibition prevented escape from royal power. The city became famous on May 10, 1847 when the annexation to Piedmont took place, which started the long process of the Unification of Italy, which culminated in 1870 with the incorporation of the Papal States. Vernarth undoubtedly before closing the door inside his house opened it for a well-deserved new constitution of the right to acquire.

From here he went on great excursions to the Island of Sardinia in the autumn, where they lived from 1874 to 1877. Sailing trips were true insignia that shone through the waters of the green Celestine Sea. In an emerald sea between large and small coves of white sand ... on the celestial map of Sardinia, great syllogistic light of the Mediterranean for only them, with a territory full of galleries and bookstores, mainly mountainous for their walks and a half barefoot in summer, and with high chamber music peaks. The presence of Vernarth and Etréstles, attracted a lot of attention here, because they were seen every 50 or a hundred years, always seeing that their environment appeared the same, but humanly different. Sometimes in this territory, there are large areas that remain magically intact, inhabited by deer, wild horses and birds of prey, rich in forests with ancient trees, ponds and small desert areas where they both rose, to dissipate the sea that reigns with its colors and it is insinuated in the hidden coves, along the coast and on the beaches in the most frequented towns. The Emerald Coast, on account of impatient dreams in a little gem such as Porto Cervo, Porto Vecchio and Porto Rotondo, the latter facing the Gulf of Cugnana.

Great commotion attributed their curiosity to them as they were older, and where every millennium to be inaugurated they went to the nuragic complexes scattered throughout the territory: Unique monuments in the world that serve as testimony to an ancient and mysterious culture, dating from the fifteenth century to VI BC The nuraga, built with large stone blocks, were developed around a central tower in the shape of a cone trunk, which transmits solidity and power. These are archaeological sites where signs of ancient rituals and domestic life can still be found today.

In this algebraic cradle, it is where his Liturgy will connect linearly with Patmos and evangelization methodologies. All the seasons of travel to this mysterious area, he summoned them to meet and plot the 1,020 km. Where no thread of life is left unpatched without their repeated prayers before each glass of wine served, not even in the darkness of the Mausoleums themselves of the Troncosada, noble family originally from Venezia, in the early middle Ages.


Ellipsis in Tuscany, Villa Gamberaia
Vernarth, and Etréstles and Valekiara, are approaching the coincidence of Tuscany. Once they stayed in Sardinia, a coastal sailboat transported them in the middle of a stormy day. It was a great happy day to arrive in La Spezia.

They arrived, in a bright cart devastated by the olive trees, near the Villa Gamberaia, after eating some bacon and cheese sandwiches. This villa was originally a country house, which was owned by Matteo Gamberelli, a bricklayer, in the early 15th century. His sons Juan and Bernardo became famous architects by the name of Rossellino. After Bernardo's son sold Jacopo Riccialbani in 1597, the house was greatly enlarged, then almost completely rebuilt by the next owner, Zenobi Lapi, documents from the time mention a limonaia and the landscaped bowling alley that is part of the garden in today's design. Here they parked and at night they followed the Liturgy, highlighting those that coincided with Lent of Easter, where one day they were seen talking with Petrarch and Laura de Noves. Here Vernarth with them offering the modest auction that without a doubt would bet one day on this Villa of immemorial centuries with great challenge to its ruse, and of such architecture.

“A little more history…, The flower bed was presented with French-cut broderies in the 18th century, as can be seen in a detailed map of the estate described by Georgina Masson. The olive trees have always occupied the slopes below the garden, It has a distant view of the roofs and towers of Florence. The monumental fountain set on a steep hill on a side flank of the garden terrace has a seated god flanked by lions in stucco relief in a niche decorated with pebble mosaics and padded masonry. ” Here at the Verbena of a long feast day, everyone together with Vernarth got drunk with Corinthian Wine, which they brought and did not stop from the swing of the rhythm of the music that made them foresee their multi existence beyond their limitless sensibilities.

The parapsychological plot took them through multiple spaces of their frantic journey, as if they were being recently procreated by their heavenly and earthly parents, before they resumed the end with Kanti, Reader and their pelican Petrobus. This outcome would mark a new path of valleys on valleys, to shelter and fill their memories, especially their great navigation to the Dodecanese and Patmos, so close and intertwined with Sardinia as two islands united by the same new ocean in which we will have to navigate, and domains to ride shipped around the world.

To be continued , under eition

I wait for the inspiration to strike.
For the lightning bolt to hit me,
for that satisfying boom of thunder
to be the music in my enlightened mind.
But it doesn't come.

Day after day, I sit idly
and wait.
As other crackling lights fill the streets,
I am stationary as ever.
"It will arrive," I say, "When the time is right."
But it doesn't come.

Dawn turns to day, day turns to dusk.
Twilight seeps into the once bright sky
And I know
My time is coming to an end.

But still, inspiration evades my waiting mind.

And then, as the soft light of the stars flicker into view,
Something finally comes.
I stand up and look around, the profound realization lighting my fading sun.
There never was and will never be
a thunder god out there to help me.

Because I am Thor.
The inspirer,
the creator
of my own lightning strikes.

I smile, contented,
but still, I know
I will never create that shock of energy,
that blinding light
or world-changing view

For now,
it is too late.

Alfred, j'ai vu des jours où nous vivions en frères,
Servant les mêmes dieux aux autels littéraires :
Le ciel n'avait formé qu'une âme pour deux corps ;
Beaux jours d'épanchement, d'amour et d'harmonie,
Où ma voix à la tienne incessamment unie
Allait se perdre au ciel en de divins accords.

Qui de nous a changé ? Pourquoi dans la carrière
L'un court-il en avant, laissant l'autre en arrière ?
Lequel des deux soldats a déserté les rangs ?
Pourquoi ces deux vaisseaux qui naviguaient ensemble,
Désespérant déjà d'un port qui les rassemble,
Vont-ils chercher si **** des bords si différents ?

Je n'ai pas dévoué mon maître aux gémonies,
Je n'ai pas abreuvé de fiel et d'avanies
L'idole où mes genoux s'usaient à se plier :
Je n'ai point du passé répudié la trace,
J'y suis resté fidèle, et n'ai point, comme Horace,
Au milieu du combat jeté mon bouclier.

Non, c'est toi qui changeas. Un nom qui se révèle
T'éblouit des rayons de sa gloire nouvelle.
Tu vois dans le bourgeon le fruit qui doit mûrir :
Mécène du Virgile et saint Jean du Messie,
Tu répands en tous lieux la saint Prophétie,
Tu sèmes la parole et tu la fais fleurir.

Je ne suis pas de ceux qui vont dans les ******
S'inspirer aux lueurs blafardes des bougies,
Qui dans l'air obscurci par les vapeurs du vin,
Tentent de ranimer leur muse exténuée,
Comme un vieillard flétri qu'une prostituée
Sous ses baisers impurs veut réchauffer en vain.

C'est ainsi que j'entends l'œuvre de poésie :
Chacun de nous s'est fait l'art à sa fantaisie,
Chacun de nous l'a vu d'un différent côté.
Prisme aux mille couleurs, chaque œil en saisit une
Suivant le point divers où l'a mis la fortune :
Dieu lui seul peut tout voir dans son immensité.

Conserve la croyance et respecte la nôtre,
Apôtre dévoué de la gloire d'un autre ;
Fais-toi du nouveau Dieu confesseur et martyr,
Ne crois pas que mon cœur cède comme une argile
Ni que ta voix, prêchant le nouvel Évangile,
Si chaude qu'elle soit, puisse me convertir.

Adieu. Garde ta foi, garde ton opulence.
Laisse-moi recueillir mon cœur dans le silence,
Laisse-moi consumer mes jours comme un reclus ;
Pardonne cependant à cette rêverie,
C'est le chant d'un proscrit en quittant la patrie,
C'est la voix d'un ami que tu n'entendras plus.

I've always been a big admirer of Jesus
Though not for religous reasons

He is the all time greatest inspirer

The greatest message
of hope and love
there has ever been

The finest example
of a human being
we have ever produced

The giver of all givers
Loving and caring for Everyone

His light still
and always will
shine on brighter
than any other
Although humbly

Hope through love

And he will be our savior
But not from the bible in his hand

From the love in his heart

it brings me down
tears me apart limb from limb
brakes and grinds my bones to dust
cut and cooks my fleash to feed the lesser
but little does life it know i am in control of what it does
ever grain of bone is going around and inspiring people
ever fiber of flesh makes the people strounger
so go ahead and tear me apart it will inspirer more

In the stacks of all we knew, LOOKY HERE,
in 72 minutes we walk a parsec, and Earth turns
two degrees, and Annie Jacobsen's whole
do no more, is all our denoument.

- pardon our verbosity, we had free time -

What news good came lately my way,
I long to think I did expect, my way
was new made, after the majority attained
use of Google translate thinker augments,
weform a contextual we, excluding
orders of social harmony
allowing liar laws life,
justice and way
eminence
eumenine specificity, so many specified known
wasps classified royally cosmopolitan,
mental peace presensing sub-untilificious

royal rules, only queens reproduce,
only idle bees are never seen busy,
and some can see syms when societies
all stop to think, for a minute,
and just breath, in, then out
we form awesome thinks expansive,
to mostly
support generally useless bums, like me.

{estimated reading time queries are invalid}

This is why, don't ask why again, or else,
imagine that…

The idle mind is where repairs are made.
Pairs connect, mate in mind and hold
thoughts as long as you imagined…

With this tool,
were I one willing, and able,
to master its functionality, imagined

ever learning along with reality
expanding the need to know,

all the things possible in this window,
between my time and thine, whole
worlds away in words never writ
with ink or wedge in stone nor clay
wished for siderealities, as many as
all the stars within augmented plain
sight, as through any stained pane,
presenting dancing pixels just there,
edgewise,
in our per ifery margin, where beauty
squirms eusocially,
all lights holding mean-peak
at an instant's attention
max red or green or blue, fading to black.

Pain, in jokes and drama, pain
is the essential underlay, the gesso
McLuhan saysotoo
over which we pigmentate, media
mental in original intention, obedient,

under law older than Shadrach,
the law of the Medes and Persians,
the power of attorney given priests
of the authors of our orders, classified,
as it is writ, thus it must be… sacred
ready readers, only.
Reading makes inclusion work as wisdom,
instant completely functioning beautifully,
breathe-ing
as if, asked
and answered, at the moment, called
Wisdom, come, entreat with all warring in me,
Wisdom, come, gentle minds twisted by me,
Wisdom, come, make us make believe.
-------------

Eerie, eh, not holding any thought, being
thought spiritual enough to find any word

so idled as to be posh fluff or street crud,
slung to signal inclusion in the with side,
the meaning in life is the message
in this medium prepositioned
opposed
to the without side, those at emnity
with truth's way

Into the comfort zone,

danger free, follow your toes, theories
of everything, meditatively perpendicular,

norms, and circles, churning burning effort,
ef-ing walls extend effects solid ificate
to hold the ash and tailings,

mined precepts seeding crystals
in caverns,
never witnessed, now known, so true,

two dichotomies make one tetrad,
and whatsoever we agree
to make believe

we may, and think it not robbery
to play,

make functional fun, little impulse to smile,
and think I know this idea, functions in me,
wink
and now, you, unless we lost you at the
NAND gate, excluding unbelievers, then a
NAND gate excluding unbelievers in live words,
NAND gate excluding no second guessing, here

we are, all in one window, thinking
we are our kind,  tied
at our common sense ability,

to stretch a point,
to make a thread one pastless point thin,
to tie a premis, a premission, permitting ponderous
whying
heavy duty gullibility
in terms
of mortal sensibilities,
this'll kihl you. I realized. Accidental as the idea silent
aitches let us talk end existence kihling bad ideas

to use pain
to teach, 'ow, why how is always
thorny issues, way back, seemed common,
we learn how fire works
by being made aware,
- not by being burned, a touch is enough
- skin as sensitive as a frog in parable lies, leaps
as touch response reflex functions all start running
what ifs against wonder ifs, wishes versus prayers,
-no, frogs won't simmer to death, they leap
using frog sense,
worth of knowing how long
to wait in winter, learning
worth of knowing bears know something
of weather. Co-mental commenting we think.
Thought hard fruit, thinkalongtime fruit, ra' good

Singing salmon songs I never learned, thinking bear
market strategies make less sense than bullshat
macroeconomic dimensions extractable
from meta data,
under all we ever stood up from under,
in the bubble of all I bet I knew for sure,

boldly accumulating in arterial informal plaques,
and films in limenal tunnels holding quarks as ones,

two bit chirality problem,
solved, cut it six ways,
two heads, two mouths, in one, out the other,
inside outside all at once, so easy, we imagined,
image that, two eyes, two ears, two nasal passages
into synodical pressure sensitive chambers
sinus sorting
of pheremone signal
to act analagous senders
to whale domes, catchers,
signal
from noise, gnosisnot say so,
sniff, feel cold nose, think so,
swallow all pride, and pretend, we made up this mind,
and it uses words we can understand
in all the unbarbing thorny issues
of zoological superfluity, among

watchers and waiters serving as idle ants,
with angst relief primary function,
just take air for granted, free
grace in time of need,
sleep if you are tired, easy,
weary way we know we go, has
cost. Pain exists, you know, you can imagine
in art, in jokes, and most certainly dramatic series
that carry followers
through decades exposed
to commercials announcing urgent solutions,
- now, no commercials, we bingegulp seasons,
- sometimes at a sitting, depends on dope
skating on easy learning absorption skills,
ever learning the drama never ends,

ask your doctor, now,
back to the global equivalent of one
Paredo Distribution, eighty percent of TV
is daily faire for twenty percent of people,
eighty percent of readers reading this far,
get to this bubbles popping edge, on a side

zoom to a scatter graph, who breathes in
who breathes out,
all around the world
whiling away, in trust we make peace seem.
.. seen as through smoked glasses, liquidly
Gaussian blurring edges
where the frame
holds the light we see through
to think like this

is real
at word level. Live rethinking, first men
tale-ings
after refining whying wishes
to know.
More, or less.

Everything, all at once, is chaos, whence
art abstracts beauty patiently, trusting wishes
what if its another trick we have no defences,
we get eaten alive,
for cultural misappropriation.

Dear is a value to be weighed using full bandwidth
Sakal, show thy self letters ready for measure,
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, indeed
שָׂכַל defined several of seventy ways,
spelled to take a broken heart
and mend it with a realization.

If my need became your need,
we would be in love,
that would really
defeat the use
of preparation, peeling potatoes,
prudence, ever ready to entertain,
pounding clothes down by the riverside,
watchin' babies being washed off and blessed,
שָׂכַל knowing waiting is suffering, not pain
watchin' life like National Geographic, before TV.
A messenger's whistle, hear
ah
Message to the mass essences
of little looks mira-clues, seen miracles
since who knew when today
would continue as today. As if once more.
Dear Prudence,
did we come out to play, as if today,
was one of those times that we all seem
to have, recollected
if it could seem alright.
שָׂכַל prophets spake, Ai make secrets known,
the whys for all the wars so far. Pride, indeed.

Why? Would that defeat the use,
and not the purpose
of preparation, final product,
Battlefield Earth, truths uses versus lies uses,
us as we
who think it all through
to the seed
in the fruit it self desirable
to make one wise considering
שָׂכַל science falsely so called, still makes believers.
Slow down.
Jello time reminds second glancers,
when time is not as dear, as an instance
in re co gnosis, swallows gnosis known nots,
- wise was the serpent discerning decision trees.
what would ever make us all think one thought once,
then never think it alone again, we all ways, big all
think this was the way, we walked in,
the same way we walked out, all
set to comprehend wisdom and knowledge and
yada da da da we who work
   in living once idle words,
our side ways won, when we did not fight,
we never lasted al-mental
this long before, but
when we get old, we keep our wits, we got older
sooner than later, so we know
more than our dads, too.
- old friends well imagined
- happy ever after any way,
don't aspire, little maker
of good sensed peace,
to stave off thermo nuclear war
by your self, aight, here we go,
make up a master mind board
of suggesters
by your self,
HelloWorld,
with you
in a minute,
I am in a consultation,
relationships with dead friends, such are
deeply personal, core ties to old times, remember
we can hear them say the same damnedlies, or listen,
שָׂכַל together with stars consider real the times

analagous to tuning back when zero beat, was sought
to make one wise,
in Genesis, esoteric
in the gaps,
she saw he never knew, so Cain did, for sure…

hey, old enemy of me, I cannot remember why
I was afraid of you, and never got to know you,

but I recognized your art, the other day,
in an old, old magazine ad,
then that leads to us in a sense, innocent,
a lost soul I had no sympathy for, I was his bully,

so he's dead and we're okeh, spiritually, we talked,
I told him I had changed, he told me he'd broken,
got busted in Oklahoma, went to prison, for ****,
got religion then went nuts, and I said

I can relate.

So we stay in touch in the spirit.
I don't know how he died, but we were in situations,
where sixth grade bullying had been forgotten,
when I call this character
into my life, as a friend, known to many
mistreated in this mortal moment, laughing ever
as a complexity of never ifery, it did not ****
you to know, boys were always boys,
we always think of Infinite Jest, and laugh
at the coincidence we both read Foster Wallace.
Always sorry, for the trouble we allowed
our wild child payback voter against
peace at any price, what price glory?

The little monstors empo'w'rable in us all, rahrahrah

It was Donall Dempsy said it:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4897567/even-now-now-very-now/
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4899302/walking-from-the-rising-sun-to-kildare-town/

Oi, this man's an inspirer of SAW such as wisdoms, never told,
could be, back when eighty percent
of us heard all our wisdom from drunks.
Now we read texts.

When the battles over,
and common sense is laughing,
some of it singing simultaneously

concurrently free presses in spirit and echoing
out side the bubble we met in as licensed wannabe

messenger shouting in the wild,
anybody home, we got lost.

As the earth moves relative to the sun, see
two degrees, is about, nearly to the Picosec
Seventy-two minutes, a parsa, in tradersprachen,

the realization, sure and certain utter destruction,
an agreed upon form of right use ness, national opinions

believe madness deters madness and nonsense in just code.
-it is not secret code, nor sacred, knowing is necessary, just
always was, all else you were told
to believe, with knowin' known
as sin, well we have recycleables
to trade, for those,
made
of the exact same historical threads
to here. On the battlefield, after all.
The point of anything we wished we did, done.

We can use our minds in ways once called praying,
we think we say we wish you the best, and hesitate, luck or grace,
favor undeserved by a wretch like me, ah, the maze,
the logos as spirit medium cord, twisted spider kite collection,
Ariadne, toss the lad a line, he's a ways to go until sense is common.

Céleste fille du poète,
La vie est un hymne à deux voix.
Son front sur le tien se reflète,
Sa lyre chante sous tes doigts.

Sur tes yeux quand sa bouche pose
Le baiser calme et sans frisson,
Sur ta paupière blanche et rose
Le doux baiser à plus de son.

Dans ses bras quand il te soulève
Pour te montrer au ciel jaloux,
On croit voir son plus divin rêve
Qu'il caresse sur ses genoux !

Quand son doigt te permet de lire
Les vers qu'il vient de soupirer,
On dirait l'âme de sa lyre
Qui se penche pour l'inspirer.

Il récite ; une larme brille
Dans tes yeux attachés sur lui.
Dans cette larme de sa fille
Son cœur nage ; sa gloire a lui !

Du chant que ta bouche répète
Son cœur ému jouit deux fois.
Céleste fille du poète,
La vie est une hymne à deux voix.

Sois de bronze et de marbre et surtout sois de chair

Certes, prise l'orgueil nécessaire plus cher,

Pour ton combat avec les contingences vaines ;

Que les poils de ta barbe ou le sang de tes veines ;

Mais vis, vis pour souffrir, souffre pour expier,

Expie et va-t'en vivre et puis reviens prier,

Prier pour le courage et la persévérance

De vivre dans ce siècle, hélas ! et cette France,

Siècle et France ignorants et tristement railleurs.

(Mais le règne est plus haut et la patrie ailleurs

Et la solution est autre du problème.)

Sois de chair et même aime cette chair, la même

Que celle de Jésus sur terre et dans les cieux,

Et dans le Très Saint-Sacrement si précieux

Qu'il n'est de comparable à sa valeur que celle

De ta chair vénérable en sa moindre parcelle

Et dans le moindre grain de l'Hostie à l'autel ;

Car ce mystère, l'Incarnation, est tel,

Par l'exégèse autour comme par sa nature ;

Qu'il fait égale au Créateur la créature,

Cependant que, par un miracle encor plus grand,

L'Eucharistie, elle, les confond et les rend

Identiques. Or cette chair expiatoire.

Fais-t'en une arme douloureuse de victoire

Sur l'orgueil que Satan peut d'elle t'inspirer

Pour l'orgueil qu'à jamais tu peux considérer

Comme le prix suprême et le but enviable.

Tout le reste n'est rien que malice du diable !

Alors, oui, sois de bronze impassible, revêts

L'armure inaccessible à braver le Mauvais,

Pudeur, Calme, Respect, Silence et Vigilance.

Puis sois de marbre, et pur, sous le heaume qui lance

Par ses trous le regard de tes yeux assurés,

Marche à pas révérents sur les parvis sacrés.

Life is flagrant debasement
Inspirer of self-effacement  
So I flagellate myself
Skin raw and exposed
Like my heart and artistic soul
Ready for just a little more
And a little more
And just a little more

Your art, my eyes fascinate over
The detail so plenty, my focus, undecided
An inspiration for it, I fail to find
An inspirer, has it become.
My first glance taken, intrigue built
Paint or pastel; bewildered I am left
Art at its finest, I concede
Your marks, deceptive of your youth.
Commend you do I, to soon for your efforts
Your work incomplete, told; unnoticed
My eyes revert to its previous indulgence
Beauty defined, seen; an artists' mind exceeding the viewers.
Repetition a joy, not a task
An admirer I have become, awaiting the last stroke.

Sonnet.

Je suis belle, ô mortels ! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Éternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

Je trône dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris ;
J'unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes ;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austères études ;

Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles :
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles !

Rire étant si jolie,
C'est mal. Ô trahison
D'inspirer la folie,
En gardant la raison !

Rire étant si charmante !
C'est coupable, à côté
Des rêves qu'on augmente
Par son trop de beauté.

Une chose peut-être
Qui va vous étonner,
C'est qu'à votre fenêtre
Le vent vient frissonner,

Qu'avril commence à luire,
Que la mer s'aplanit,
Et que cela veut dire :
Fauvette, fais ton nid.

Belle aux chansons naïves,
J'admets peu qu'on ait droit
Aux prunelles très vives,
Ayant le coeur très froid.

Quand on est si bien faite,
On devrait se cacher.
Un amant qu'on rejette,
À quoi bon l'ébaucher ?

On se lasse, ô coquette,
D'être toujours tremblant,
Vous êtes la raquette,
Et je suis le volant.

Le coq battant de l'aile,
Maître en son pachalick,
Nous prévient qu'une belle
Est un danger public.

Il a raison. J'estime
Qu'en leur gloire isolés,
Deux beaux yeux sont un crime,
Allumez, mais brûlez.

Pourquoi ce vain manège ?
L'eau qu'échauffe le jour,
La fleur perçant la neige,
Le loup hurlant d'amour,

L'astre que nos yeux guettent,
Sont l'eau, la fleur, le loup,
Et l'étoile, et n'y mettent
Pas de façons du tout.

Aimer est si facile
Que, sans coeur, tout est dit,
L'homme est un imbécile,
La femme est un bandit.

L'oeillade est une dette.
L'insolvabilité,
Volontaire, complète
Ce monstre, la beauté.

Craindre ceux qu'on captive !
Nous fuir et nous lier !
Être la sensitive
Et le mancenillier !

C'est trop. Aimez, madame.
Quoi donc ! quoi ! mon souhait
Où j'ai tout mis, mon âme
Et mes rêves, me hait !

L'amour nous vise. Certes,
Notre effroi peut crier,
Mais rien ne déconcerte
Cet arbalétrier.

Sachez donc, ô rebelle,
Que souvent, trop vainqueur,
Le regard d'une belle
Ricoche sur son coeur.

Vous pouvez être sûre
Qu'un jour vous vous ferez
Vous-même une blessure
Que vous adorerez.

Vous comprendrez l'extase
Voisine du péché,
Et que l'âme est un vase
Toujours un peu penché.

Vous saurez, attendrie,
Le charme de l'instant
Terrible, où l'on s'écrie :
Ah ! vous m'en direz tant !

Vous saurez, vous qu'on gâte,
Le destin tel qu'il est,
Les pleurs, l'ombre, et la hâte
De cacher un billet.

Oui, - pourquoi tant remettre -
Vous sentirez, qui sait ?
La douceur d'une lettre
Que tiédit le corset.

Vous riez ! Votre joie
À Tout préfère Rien.
En vain l'aube rougeoie,
En vain l'air chante. Eh bien,

Je ris aussi ! Tout passe.
Ô muse, allons-nous-en.
J'aperçois l'humble grâce
D'un toit de paysan ;

L'arbre, libre volière,
Est plein d'heureuses voix ;
Dans les pousses du lierre
Le chevreau fait son choix ;

Et, jouant sous les treilles,
Un petit villageois
A pour pendant d'oreilles
Deux cerises des bois.

Ils nous laissaient entre autres : 

Pour les Romains, leur art, leurs sculptures. 

Les Vikings nous ont laissé leur courage, leur Bravoure et ne cessent d'inspirer nos cinéastes. 

L'Afrique nous laisse avec sa culture riche, nous respirons son histoire, ses exploits, sa gloire , celle des premières civilisations,  et son influence bien que son peuple ne s'en souvient plus entièrement et que tous les jours ses fils naissent pour s'émerveiller d'une histoire qui n'est pas la leur.
L'Afrique nous laisse sa dessance.
Sa Paix bien que menacée, 
Son Unité bien qu'envahi 

Et ses valeurs bien que mourante , pour autant parmi les seules qui donnes encore signe de vie sur la planète. 
Elles nous laissent aussi ses dieux et ses multiples coutumes


Les amérindiens nous laissent leurs croyances sur le monde des esprits  ,
Les histoires fabuleuses du printemps et l'harmonie avec la nature et animaux . 


Je n'aurais pas assez de ligne pour parler de la Chine et ses empereurs
Du Japon impérial et sa particularité 
De la Grèce, son histoire ses dieux ( Les plus connus de l'antiquité ; si vous me permettez ) 
Du Pérou,  des Aztèques et des civilisations qui nous ont précédées.

Le monde ancien n'était pas parfait 
Mais au fils des âges, il ne s'est pas défini par ses démons 


Le péché, la violence, la cruauté, ne sont pas nouveaux à l'histoire de l'humanité. 
Le mal a laissé son empreinte partout dans l'histoire, les guerres ont décimé les civilisations, les pestes on récrit l'histoire des hommes. 


L'avidité humaine reste la plus destructrice de tous et fait de l'homme l'artisan qualifié de ces propes malheurs.

Aujourd'hui, la Nature a envoyé la fin toqué à notre porte  . Et j'ai une question :Que faire l'humanité ? 



Among other things, they left us with : 

For the Romans, their art, their sculptures. 

The Vikings left us with their courage, their bravery and they continue to inspire our film makers. 

Africa leaves us with its rich culture, we breathe in its history, its exploits, its glory, that of the first civilisations, and its influence even though its people no longer fully remember it and every day her sons are born to marvel at a history that is not theirs .
Africa leaves us its legacy.
Its Peace although threatened, 
Its Unity though invaded 

And its values, though dying, yet among the only ones still alive on the planet. 
They also leave us their gods and their multiple customs


The Amerindians leave us their beliefs about the spirit world,
The fabulous stories of spring and the harmony with nature and animals. 


I would not have enough lines to speak about China and its emperors
Imperial Japan and its particularity 
Greece, its history and its gods (the most famous of antiquity; if you allow me say so) 
Peru, the Aztecs and the civilizations that preceded us.

The ancient world was not perfect 
But through the ages, it was not defined by its demons 


Sin, violence, cruelty, are not new to human history. 
Evil has left its mark throughout history, wars have decimated civilisations, plagues have rewritten human history. 


Above all Human greed remains the most destructive of all and makes man the qualified artisan of his own misfortunes.

Today, Nature has sent the end knocking at our door  . And I have a question:What should we  humanity do?

Si je veux que ma destinée ne soit pas semblable à  un jour de pluie
Je dois pas investir dans un parapluie
Mais plustot prendre ce que je considère comme la petite chose que je fais maintenant au sérieux,
Elle doit être productive pas seulement en billets
Elle doit aussi sinon donner du sens a ma vie
Je dois me dire qu'un jour je regarderai derrière et avec un sourire je benirai Dieu pour la force qu'il m'a donné de tenir bon
Il ya que Lui mon Abris mon Défenseur mon admirable Conseiller

A cela je doit ajouter
Que je raconterai mon Histoire pour encourager
Que j'écrirais ma bibliographie pour aménager les esprits
Je donnerai mon témoignage pour inspirer
Et je prendrai  exemple sur moi-même pour aspirer a plus grand

Aujourd'hui je suis convaincue que
Je ne dois pas lire les bibliographie de mes patriarches pour comprendre la clé de leur succès
Je dois les lire  pour avoir un aperçu des obstacles et des monstres auquelles je ferai face pendant mon ascension, et m'attendre a ce que les miens soit plus féroces
Ou prier pour cela

Aujourd'hui je demande a la vie de ne pas me sourir
Je lui promets que demain je lui sourirait en lui disant merci de n'avoir pas été facile avec moi
D'avoir été un enseignant impartiale

Oh ! laissez-moi ! c'est l'heure où l'horizon qui fume
Cache un front inégal sous un cercle de brume,
L'heure où l'astre géant rougit et disparaît.
Le grand bois jaunissant dore seul la colline.
On dirait qu'en ces jours où l'automne décline,
Le soleil et la pluie ont rouillé la forêt.

Oh ! qui fera surgir soudain, qui fera naître,
Là-bas, - tandis que seul je rêve à la fenêtre,
Et que l'ombre s'amasse au fond du corridor, -
Quelque ville mauresque, éclatante, inouïe,
Qui, comme la fusée en gerbe épanouie,
Déchire ce brouillard avec ses flèches d'or !

Qu'elle vienne inspirer, ranimer, ô génies,
Mes chansons, comme un ciel d'automne rembrunies,
Et jeter dans mes yeux son magique reflet,
Et longtemps, s'éteignant en rumeurs étouffées,
Avec les mille tours de ses palais de fées,
Brumeuse, denteler l'horizon violet !

Le 5 septembre 1828.

Yes, God is the Father
No one can equal Him above there
The Creator, the Ender, possessor of ultimate power!

Yes, God is the Son
To the Father He is one
The Savior, the Redeemer, enemy of Satan!

Yes, God is the Holy Spirit
Whom the Father & the Son meet
The Counselor, the Inspirer, source of divine heat!

-11/03/2015
(Dumarao)
*3rd Daily Reflection from Catechism Booklet

You have only one life on this here world.
So Press on, never give up you are loved.
For your life is very valuable and needed.
You are an Jewel, for you are an inspirer.
Without you there would be less light here.
For your light shines as a beacon here too.
Your beacon lead others to the only true Hope.
For the Christ is using you to draw others here.
So whatever you do never give up here Friend.