Carti PDF | Emanuel Calvary Chapel Book Lists, Pdf, Reading Lists .. Prea multa fericire - Alice Munro Alice Munro, Book Worms, Bunk Beds, Book. În faţa urii; sau măcar, prea rău. Încearc-a nu mai fi cu . Eu multe drămuiesc, de obicei. Iar dacă-aş vrea în .. Din fericire, gândul către tine. Mi se îndreapt-o. Am avut parte de prea multe fete cumsecade, generoase, care s-au cuplat cu mine .. Din fericire, n-a fost ȘhiarăatâtășeătâmpităȘaăs ășeaăȘuătţat ăfţr a.

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Please help us to share our service with your friends. Andreea Marinescu Category: Share Embed Donate. Dunford avea foarte mare dreptate. Cu ce te ocupi tu acum? Polly clipi. Ale lui, oricum, erau foarte, foarte frumoase. Ai sunat.

Unde ploua mereu. Peste tot. Foarte bine. Mai ales in dormitorul unui domn. Chiar foarte mult. Plec la micul dejun. Zigotto Printed by: Anthalle Adh Harrah Cover and graphics: I dedicate this book to my friends in the whole world, who have given me as much light, love and divinity as a human being can get To love is polytheistic, deifying, in gentle, soothing tempos; in the relations of the unexpected time of the happiness of love, the spaces which are preeminently either celestial, divine, or agora-like, earthly, whirl towards the Dyonisiac agony, towards a new view on life.

Semantology, just like the semiology of the frequently sought word, of the caressed noun — love — are aleatory, spontaneous, freely released towards a special dynamism, similar to the heart beats of a bird cast out in a chant. The syntagmas — happy- end — are either metaphorically summarized, or they are reflections of the loved one, of the one who loves, both of them in the will of the God of Between myth and deification it is the aspiration of the I, of the self, to reach perfection through melodic love and sacrosanct, sacred existentialistic rhetoric.

Let us find the poetical dance of the Lecturer in Anglo-Saxon languages in the poem Between East and West — migratory, pilgrim-like cardinality, of a Romanian cast out by dreams in the world of the European greatness, a poem written in Munich, in January The text, totally without selective suspensions represents a debate of love at a social level, a profound and detailed one, convincing us of Here are the details of the same Deifying Kiss: Praise and glorious victory of the supreme love!

Also in Munich, in the poem Prayer, the poetess invokes: Or she evokes: Prophetic syntagmas, Lucas, John, Paul, religious meditations from various religions chasing away In other words, by using such metaphors: In this book, the psychology of love is achieved like a path between birth and life. This psychology is subject to the steps of universal love: All these steps are soulfully thought by the poetess at oriental, western and meridional cardinal level, as it is known that the poetical being Alina Beatrice actually travels through these exotic sentimental lands, being a passionate pilgrim over the bord, over the channel, over the ocean, a perfect creator of photographic exhibitions.

These images are to be lyrically substantialized in the book Kiss of the Gods: Altfel spus, prin astfel de metafore: But also as an anthropomorphic evolution of the love felt and understood by any soul wishing to love, certainly, ending up dying. Either by rendering some biographical moments, or the imagination and talent putting down things that surpass the ordinary — the reader will be transposed in a parallel reality where everything is possible.

The poetess is in love with everything that has to do with beauty and knowingly mixes totally opposed cultural patterns.

In her poetry we will find the simple and lasting truths of existence, the paradises that we thought to be lost for ever and especially the wish, perhaps too strongly expressed, to recover all this in a lyrical speech which is meant to be as original as possible.

Wretched he did not have the white shirt of light and was powerless about working wonders They despised him they plucked the feathers out of his wings they stoned him to bleeding He vanished.

In the wing-prints left on the sand I discerned the pattern of the city: Venezia profundis The city has been overtaken by the tide; it is visiting its vassals it enters cathedrals.

On the cold tile flooring it turns into a mirror and is absorbing the paintings, while in its transparent profoundness it brings to life the world from beyond: The space opens the walls descends, encompasses Among these blurred, evanescent frames the gallery is hovering.

In the sky, the sea, with its wild fragrance, is swaying Din materii naive, orb a-nfiripat aripa. Slujesc coroana.

From pristine stuff, blindly he patched up the wing. The great Censor — the guardian of the sky has smashed it.

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Somebody has taken it out of the crystal and has nestled it in a sphere of light, has placed it down on a hand-breadth of ground, 34 into the lagoon. Un mesaj pe ecran: A message on the screen of a clay little tablet in fine print: From the horizon a thread gets loose and alights on my palm. The city San Marco perceives me welcomes me onto its aqueous throne embracing me. It gives me a seat to the hospitality dinner it shows to me the merry-go-round with golden days, days in disguise nights with the Sun-Moon and the wild horses arriving from the Sun Rise Time stands by my side In dismay the PineTrees are still awaiting the death-signal for the gladiator and shivering are casting off the crushed cones 39 Through the eyes of the trunk scales engraved in tear-drop of resin they are looking at lonely walls In scraps of frescos are withering love stories On the entrance way to the city of ashes on stalls with mementoes they are selling crystals of volcanic lava.

At windows there turn yellow into wreathes laurel leaves On the hearth of fire-places, through the smut there loom white profiles of lascivious odalisks Nostalgically, my angel has got unwillingly entangled in the leaf of light that flickers above in a nook of the stained glass.

The Crystal Island The ghosts of the lagoon Let themselves get caught in silver fishing-nets are creeping into stained glasses on secret tracks, pledged with death. With it they get into the lamp-posts on piers ensite light-houses idly tossing waves.

Through the windows they get into the houses 42 into the chalices and the crystals into the pendentives Round my neck the necklace of Murano bespeaks to me the Venetian passage. The bridges are busy to filter the light over the channels M-a oprit: Byzantine Venice From its gliding along The wall has come to a stand at the foot of the wall.

At the window above, blind the dummy was surveying On its painted visage, a shading: Hand by hand with the evening-tide on the bridge has arrived a young lady Draped in velvet and lacery a venetian hat on. On her cheek, a shading: She has stopped me: At the wall window, only the dark In the crevice of life — of death matching only itself the city Nests of Shading On tilts, the night heralds the twilight into the city; it gets entangled among masts and campanile spires it is staggering 48 it is falling to earth it is going to smashes and it is melting away on the water-waves, on the roofs it is slipping down the windows and it is clustering under the bridges, in nests of shading, as many abodes for the dreams of love Dar vai!

Alternatives From under the wing of the day of me does the sun make choice it holds my forehead, it holds my hand so as not to make choice of anything from around only to view and to hear with the wave to glide with the stones to get smoothened. But woe! The Temptation The sky is bubbling down On the bank a fisherman is gleaning sun-spots from the foliage He tells me he has locked the dwelling and is not in the mood any longer for ceremonies with the Rusalkas When in Venice is snowfalling a viridian silk is steaming over the city and holds back the flakes from falling into the channels when beguiled by mirrors.

When in Venice is snowfalling the flakes come down so as to attire the light in winter array. I hold out my frozen hand for the snowfalls to tack gloves to me Around the city, Time walks by water faintly is fingering golden tesserae, frescoes, stained glasses.

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For its helplessness, it pays high price; into it do the lagoon dwellers bounce and from it do they pluck out patches which then they carry on their back, in their pouches with their past and future seasons. Pilgrims to Verona Hobgoblins with red undercoats on are clambering into the sky and are plundering it of the torchlights of the day. On the Elsinore rocks they are implanting the roots of doubt fetching venom from the eclipses of love and the coldness from the catacombs.

Through the abyss of the mirror they ensnare virgins. There arrive the lovers! The lovers of Verona are soothing their love with sheets torn out from Shakespeare There arrive the pilgrim lovers! At the Capulet house they ensite candles on the walls and letters with the same request 56 are burning..

The house—ship with all its lights on is climbing up the mountain of love In chimes of cymbals hobgoblins go astray and fall into the red lamps. Day by day their extolment gets ingrained in their nature they get rid of their attire and give in to myself. They get into the realm. The space gets limbering, is swaying and following myself gets into the ulterior realm.

With your weightiness to relent the water to take in 59 one centimetre from the height of the boat In the Capulet House The sunrise has poured into the room and has looked at the clock.

While fastening his sword about his baldric, he said: The clock watch — an old coffee grinder has smashed the dream Raw Colour There are still rolling over golgothas thirty coins of silver; they get multiplied are commanding they are deafening by whispering they get into words get into spaces they enclose them they unclose them To keep them quiet!

Madre terra — sienna In its depths a backwash a bell a brush stroke eastward a brush stroke westward. The Reverse Side To the meander, to the meander! There the azure gets mellow and the stones get wiser.

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The stones — the delusive ones get veiled in silks under the water, green rippling shadowings The stones — the beautiful ones with eyes of moon are calling out my eyesAm srit de pe scaun i m-am npustit pe ringul de dans.

A fost ars la crematoriu. You think the past has nothing to do with the future because that s how you decided one evening when the pain was too big.

El tono de tu voz hace que quiera estrangularme.

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