A actualidade repartida entre as duas cidades em que todos vivemos: a do mundo e a do espírito, a dos ricos e a dos pobres. Estamos com todos os que acreditam que o espírito prevalecerá sobre o mundo
18.5.07
Há alguma justiça neste mundo... mas não chega!
1 comment:
Anonymous
said...
Eeeek. This guy gives me the creeps. Instant karma works. His falldown was predictable since that day the world met the holes in his sockets.
Me too I have a hole in one socket, but then I ain't no bank president. Since I´m an hassidic jew I should have compassion for this wolf, who is also a jewish brother. But I can´t. I don't want. I avoid it. Later may be, when the works of justice are done and the crystal of wisdom will appear behind some dark cloud of despair. Then I'll pull my prayer shawl up to my Mitzah (the upper point of the six pointed star of divine onenesss) and may be I'll look groovy as Groucho Marx, comic to my creator´s Eye, laughable to my brother´s selective eye. I dunno. May be. Time hesitates with our twisted awareness of eternity. Could Wolfowitz be part of some eternal poem? May be. May be not. Suddenly my hole is shining. Not my holiness, which is absent, though I reclaim its wings day after day with a wailing cry.
1 comment:
Eeeek. This guy gives me the creeps. Instant karma works. His falldown was predictable since that day the world met the holes in his sockets.
Me too I have a hole in one socket, but then I ain't no bank president. Since I´m an hassidic jew I should have compassion for this wolf, who is also a jewish brother. But I can´t. I don't want. I avoid it.
Later may be, when the works of justice are done and the crystal of wisdom will appear behind some dark cloud of despair. Then I'll pull my prayer shawl up to my Mitzah (the upper point of the six pointed star of divine onenesss) and may be I'll look groovy as Groucho Marx, comic to my creator´s Eye, laughable to my brother´s selective eye.
I dunno. May be. Time hesitates with our twisted awareness of eternity. Could Wolfowitz be part of some eternal poem? May be. May be not.
Suddenly my hole is shining. Not my holiness, which is absent, though I reclaim its wings day after day with a wailing cry.
Samuel Cohen
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