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Jorge Luis Borges

In general, every country has the language it deserves.

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Joseph de Maistre

Every country has the government it deserves.

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George Orwell

At age 50, every man has the face he deserves.

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Erica Jong

Every country gets the circus it deserves. Spain gets bullfights. Italy gets the Catholic Church. America gets Hollywood.

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Emily Dickinson

Many a phrase has the English language

276

Many a phrase has the English language
I have heard but one—
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder's Tongue—

Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide's a' lull—
Saying itself in new infection—
Like a Whippoorwill—

Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep—
Thundering its Prospective—
Till I stir, and weep—

Not for the Sorrow, done me—
But the push of Joy—
Say it again, Saxton!
Hush—Only to me!

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If Every Time of the Day Has a Poem of Its Own

If every time of the day
Has a poem of its own
This afternoon too should long
To say something about itself-
But as it stretches its slow length too long
As it makes heat and light one long unending discomfort,
This afternoon says only
That even the time of day
Cannot mean much
If one does not have something
Outside oneself
To say in it.

All heat and light are emptiness now
And the overwhelming shape of brightness
Is nothing more than the stunned silence
One fears when one wakes from a bad dream
In the middle of the day and night.

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The language of silence of the eyes.!

O God!
The craftsman par excellence!
Two eyes you have gifted us
Wonder what a creation it is!
What two lips and a tongue miserably fail
To achieve in endless action
They accomplish with the least fuss!
Cutting aross every barrier-
Manmade and nature crafted-
With great impact their intent express
All in divine silence!
Spectrums of emotions
In all their subtleties and majesties
In these skies are in display!
Cute expressions in millions on millions
This pair streams out in endless cascades
All in a trice and in unison!
O the language of silence of the eyes
Has more vocabulary and music
Than all the languages of the world
Could gather in their folds over the ages!

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The Corporal

The History Reconstruction Arm
Of the Ministry of Offence,
Had called me in for a meeting
With the Chiefs of Recompense,
They said they needed an agent,
Prepared to risk his all,
‘We have the technology waiting
Now we need to change the world.'

The shelves in the shops were empty
People fought for a loaf of bread,
Butter was unobtainable
And so was cheese, they said,
The ration cards have been in place
For fifty years or more,
The money was spent on the army, sent
To fight this terrible war.

Thank God it hasn't gone nuclear,
But they said that it never would,
The threat of retaliation kept
The armies where they stood,
The Reds are commanding the channel coast
Right down to the Pyrenees.
And Britain is standing alone again
Though they've brought us to our knees.

The Fascists in Whitechapel
With their propaganda rule,
While down in Brixham Prison
Lie the hopes and dreams of fools,
They shot the Liberal Poets and
Wiped out the socialist left,
They say what's good for the country
Is the strong arm of the west!

The States are a bristling fortress
But they'll never come to our aid,
They say whatever they owed us
Was in 14-18 paid,
They've colonised the Pacific
Made New Zealand just a State,
Australia's turned their backs on us
And left us to our fate.

‘We've studied where it all went wrong, '
Said General Angus Pryde,
The Treaty of Rapallo is where
The hopes for peace had died,
That treaty, with the Russians helped
The Germans to re-arm,
Under the cloak of Soviet help,
That sounded the alarm! '

The man was Walter Rathenau
Who signed that evil form,
Sold Germany to the communists
That's where this war was born,
The Reds then flooded Germany,
The Reds took over France,
It was only the fact of the channel coast
That halted their advance.'

‘This Rathenau was the leader when
The war was first declared,
The whole of history hinged on him
And caught us unprepared,
So what we're now proposing is
The thing you need to do,
Go back, assassinate Rathenau
In 1922.'

‘Before or after the treaty's signed? '
I asked the generals there,
They each looked, one at the other, said
They didn't really care.
‘To stop the Communist Party taking
Over the German mind,
We'd rather a swing to the right, ' they said,
‘And the rest would fall in line.'

‘That would leave a mighty hole to fill,
The German leader's seat,
Who do you think would take his place
If I shot him in the street? '
‘There's only an Austrian Corporal has
The language, and the style,
But what would a Schicklgruber do?
Would the Germans still say ‘Heil? ' '

17 October 2012

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Every flower has bloom

The bud, yours is tomorrow.
The flower, yours is today.
The withered, yours was yesterday.
Every cat has a day.
Hope, joy and reminiscence stay.
27.01.2001, Pakd

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Every Morning Has His Own Poem/Today's Poem Is A Painful One

EVERY MORNING HAS ITS OWN POEM/ TODAY’S POEM IS A PAINFUL ONE

Every morning has its own poem
Today’s poem is a painful one
Sad is death-
No poem-
Sad is the morning of today.

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Every Morning Has Its Own Poem/ Old Age Fades

EVERY MORNING HAS ITS OWN POEM/ OLD AGE FADES

Every morning has its own poem
Old age fades and goes away in the grey of the early morning day
Every day has its own poem
Every time of life
Hope too is also given to those with few years left
Old age has a poem
I am trying to write it.

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Every Poem Has A Music Of Its Own

EVERY POEM HAS A MUSIC OF ITS OWN


Every poem has a music of its own
But the music of music is beyond poetry.
It takes us to somewhere we do not really know
The Beauty it wakens in us
Strains us into a Joy
Beyond believing.

Music is the Beauty of the Soul
When the Soul knows itself nearer God
Beauty is Holy
And Music makes us so.

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Every Cloud has a Silver Lining.

If the days are long and dark is the night, it is not worth crying
For, Every Cloud has a Silver Lining
If the faith is low, making you low
Stop wait a step or two, to get up and flow.
Soar as an eagle and spread your wings
Take in your stride wat life brings
You’re one in a million, keep your fire burning
For, Every Cloud has a Silver Lining.

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The Language of Translation

What could be a better language than the language of translation
A white curtain on which
All our handiwork stands apart like dirt

All crimes are perpetrated in mother tongues
Which always contain a discourse on innocence

There are times
When translation is the only place that has a remnant of sorts
The sound of tyranny in the native tongue
Is killing sympathy!


(Translated from Hindi by Bharatbhooshan Tiwari)

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Have every love from the start

Has every love from the start
pain that nobody can avoid?
When you get that first impulse,
is sorrow already built in it?

How do things then still make sense
that you bring so much joy to me
if every love from the start
has pain that nobody can avoid?

Is it only youth that stands free
from everything and can conquer any problem
or does life immerse you blindly
into a relationship in which the you and me
by it self determines for how love is, from the start?

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Every Man Has A Woman Who Loves Him

Every man has a woman who loves him
In rain or shine or life or death
If he finds her in this life time
He will know when he presses his ear to her breast
Why do I roam when I know youre the one
Why do I laugh when I feel like crying
Every woman has a man who loves her
Rise or fall of her life and death
If she finds him in this life time
She will know when she looks into his eyes
Why do I roam when I know youre the one
Why do I run when I feel like holding you
Every man has a woman who loves him
If he finds her in this life time
He will know

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Every Day Has Its Own Story

EVERY DAY HAS ITS OWN STORY

Every day has its own story
What will be today
I don't know-
Time tells us we will be surprised
Whether we want to or not-
We pray against the evil days
But God gives what God gives-
In our childhood souls we believe our goodness will save us -
But where is the reward for so many more righteous than us?

We go on and we try to continue to dream-
Old age is not easy -
On the whole life has not destroyed me yet-
I will maintain for so long as I can the fiction that all will be alright
Plodding along in these lines I pray today will have no special evil in it.

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Every Muscle Has a Purpose

Long before you decided,
To gather the nerve to taste...
I had been in preparation.

Long before you knew this brew I cooked,
Existed!
The seeds of my ingredients were being nurtured,
To implant in minds...
Needing a boost with a quick lift.

And as you observe this,
For structure to compare...
My skills and talents.
To categorize,
And place them somewhere.
To eventually declare what I prepare,
To be free of content!
Let me say this,
If you didn't get it...

If the aroma doesn't capture your interest...
You will never comprehend the intent.

Every muscle has a purpose!
Every jesture is connected to meaning!

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The Language Of The Wind

i took a hammer
to the altar and destroyed
every image i'd made of god...
threw my holy books
out into the trash,
my beads, and my necklace.
stopped praying, stopped thinking,
got up off my knees...

walked out into the yard,
and built a fire!
i took off my clothes,
and crawled on all fours.
bayed at the moon,
growled at a rabbit,
and burst into tears
when i tried to howl.

took a lit branch from the fire,
and threw it at the house...
all i could feel was anger,
hunger, and the beat...
wild eyed, i collapsed,
and hugged the earth...
darkness, sweet darkness,
wrapped her arms around...
stars reappeared in the blackest sky...

i rose up and shook
your spirit from me!
softly began to pray
in the language of the wind.

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How Oft Has the Benshee Cried

How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love.
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave,
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days!
Star after star decays.
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quench'd are our beacon lights --
Thou, of the Hundred Fights!
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!
Both mute, -- but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.

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The language of love

The dialogues that love broke the silence with
Like the roses that grew on mountains
With the salt from the winter sky
The unabashed soliloquy, even in monologues
They grew noisy like bees,
The string of words tied to my tongue
They mutter an odd dialect of love,
The grammar of silence was hideous
How could you bear something like that?
the language of silence I understood not
It wrote in whispers and spoke in empty pages
Lulled to sleep by the barrage of lyrics
Even the poems looked liked slangs
Just then, at that very second
I remembered silence is just a figure of speech,
And dear when of love we speak
With tongues savoring every move
The eyes measuring, the ears leaning
The eternal night singing
The language of love is after all
The silence
That meanders within…………….

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