Already Shakespeare said: ' ' the words can be full of falseness or art, the eyes are the language of corao' '. , The words never really are what they want to say. They are always beyond what the ears can catch. Filed under: James A. Levine, M.D.. Everything that we launch to the wind, it returns in them. I impress myself with the capacity that some people has to dicimular and to dissimulate. Saying things that do not feel, smiling for who they hate The most impressive is that when we look in the eyes of this type of ' ' gente' ' we see its true face, and what each word its really wants to say. It is for this type that I dedicate my time writing. It is for they hate that me that I offer to each victory and each joy.
Because those for who are benditos the envious ones launch its looks, because what plus them they covet, never they teram: ITS SOUL. It swims it will steal what you feel to them, or it knows. This is ITS, solely its. Therefore, if this text to serve to them for some thing, remembers these words: It dedicates its time in acquiring knowledge, and not in playing it are with who does not deserve at least its look.
Then it is this, started the spring At least it is what it says the calendar. A new day amanheceu It was to be a pretty day, of those facts of blue warm and sunny, lightly sprinkled of it I sing innocent of ariscos birds that are jumping happy in the twigs of the flowery trees One day of flowers and kiss-flowers. One day almost perfect, of that people look at, verdinha sees relva, and says: It must have been thus when God created the first day But he is cold and rainy, this day that finished of dawn. Credit: Tony Mandarich-2011. In part some has any signal of the flowers of the spring that, according to calendar, already started It is that this day of spring is only plus one day friorento of winter Also in my soul still it is winter. In my soul the spring alone goes to start in the summer, that is when January to arrive It is funny this, silly thing, but depending on when it is started to count all day it is year end.
This year, of a spring to another one, the year passed in a sigh Yesterday still it was winter, before yesterday still was autumn, now already it is spring. The time, over all the time of our life, flies each faster time when it is come close to the end Twenty and four hours are little time for one day. Each day of our lives would have to last a thousand Still well that it does not last. How boredom, that insuportvel weight of if loading, would be a life of a thousand years! Seventy years it is the time of our life. if some, for its robustness, arrive at the eighty, optimum of them of these years she is canseira and boredom It says the salmista (Salmo 90).
BOMBSTICO Another day I observed a square of aspect neglecter; trunks of trees in the soil, garbage and papers spread, what more it called the attention, however, it was the amount of pigeons. Passer-bys pigeons they shared spaces in the lunch schedule, the difference is that, the passers-by directed it the local restaurants to make its meals, to the step that the pigeons were served and saciavam the hunger in the square there. The birds festejavam the slap-up meal, that was gratis, came of the food leftovers launched in the soil. It was the time where to feed pigeons in the square it was a pleasant leisure. The pigeon, bird symbol of the peace, subject of music and poetry is one of the transmitting greaters of urban illnesses that exist. It flies of a roof to the other, finds in the places garbage remaining portions than more satisfactory. The population it contributes for multiplication of these birds when they offer propitious conditions for its permanence. Exactly in the condition of urban plague, it does not leave of being admirable free flight of the pigeons. However, it is preferable to drive away them, preventing illnesses or the bath bombstico of its excrements.