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The body shudders as it shuddered
before the founding of Rome and after,
in the twentieth century before and after Christ.
Tortures are just as they were, only the earth has grown smaller,
and what happens sounds as if it’s happening in the next room. Wislawa Szymborska - Tortures
مثل الأسبوع المقبل
لا تترك يدي
صافحني دون أن تترك يدي للهواء
احتفظ بها وبي غادة خليفة - مقطع من رسالة طويلة لم تكتب بعد
مختارات الإذاعة الشرقية:
محمد طه - موّال الحب غالي
يا عيني يا ليلي يا ليل يا عيني يا أبو الغلابة يا ليل
يا فرح روح للهنا وقول له تعالى عود
وفرّح القلب ساعه بالأحبه وعود
إمتى ليالي الهنا ترجع لنا وتعود
الحب غالي شغل بالي وبيه موعود
دا الفرح للي سعد والحظ للموعود
ومهما طال البعاد القلب بيحبك
يا اللي بحبك أنا اللي بالفرح موعود
أبو الحسن الأشعري - مقالات الإسلاميين
وقد أجمل من بعده الأشاعرة كل هذا في عبارة واحدة تقول - كل ما خطر ببالك فهو هالك، والله خلاف ذلك
Barbie, Toy Story 3 movie
ملخص العقد الإجتماعي لجان جاك روسو بواسطة العروسة
#كيف_تعلم_طفلك_الديموقراطية؟
Alice Walker - I Said to Poetry
I said to Poetry:”I’m finished
with you.”
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
“No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
Im out for good times–
at the very least,
some painless convention.”
Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn’t sad or anything,
only restless.
Poetry said: “You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?”
I said: “I didn’t hear that.
Besides, it’s five o’clock in the a.m.
I’m not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you.”
Poetry said: “But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one–and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with
Think of that!”
“I’ll join the church!” I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
“I’ll learn how to pray again!”
“Let me ask you,” said Poetry.
“When you pray, what do you think
you’ll see?”
Poetry had me.
“There’s no paper
in this room,” I said.
“And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise.”
“Bullshit,” said Poetry.
“Bullshit,” said I.

