What To Do If My Dog Has A Wart

Sexta feira de Lua Cheia em Salvador


those full moon nights in the Bay of All Saints and you can see the Lady of the Sea to arrive at the beach to let yourself wonder
The soft arms, the maternal embrace, the fish tail-plated silver, look gorgeous former beauty, the enchanting voice of immense power, ima girl's skin and corals.
You can also leave enchanted by its magnificent corner of the waves on snoring: endless laughter and foam wind.
She comes for the gifts of people, those strange children who live so far from the infinite embrace of the sea.
the stones are only loose petals of beautiful flowers and leftover dishes smelling food. On those nights stunning
moon no doubt.
magic invades the street as wind blown sand. The voice
Mermaid snoring wave creeps in the noise of cars and takes care of the air.
Only if there was the whisper of Yorubaland and greeting the shells away from revealing secrets. The border
, freedom from violent hand of trade, the beach stretches and relaxes the heart.
And there comes the siren, with all the beauty, beautiful to greet the street I wish.

Project For A Business Of Garments

Italy: land of travelers, poets, saints and heroes - 1

Frater, disguised, che per cent milia
perigli siete l'Giunti the west, so the question
Picciola vigil
d'i nostri sensi del ch'e rimanente
vogliate deny non l'esperienza, di retro
al sol, the world without people.
Consider your origin:
you were not made to live like brutes,
but to follow virtue and knowledge.
(Inferno, canto XVI)


Some travelers know, traveling to meet up, travelers to escape from himself or from others. Some people do not get travelers to enjoy the taste of going always forward, the chase the mirage of an ideal, is forced to travel travelers and business travelers to not being able to return.
The world has always been of traveling. The stories, adventures, discoveries, joys and sorrows of travelers have written books of history, have nourished our knowledge and drew the boundaries of the world.
Among the passengers forced, our perverse human history includes men, women and children enslaved.
I tell the story of Brazil, of course, given my life .
Before embarking, these travelers had to walk three times round the tree of oblivion, to forget their land, their traditions, their culture and their dignity.
Why no memory could not send their curses on those who had sold. But memory is not cleared, let alone turning in circles.
And when the horror of slavery is over, when the intellectuals have libato to honor the dignity returned, hundreds of families have left the camps and forced labor to meet with nothing but indifference, hunger, misery.
No project for them, after they had been dragged away from their land and freed from their chains. No desire to paint a goal to quell'estenuante trip.
Left to themselves, like travelers lost in the streets no choices, only hold the memory of their culture, their land, their own humanity.
E ports and the countryside is populated by low-wage laborers, both in competition with one another to choose to return the slaves without even the excuse of the chains.
O thieves, murderers and whores. Trades old and painful as the world, marginalized and exploited by respectable society. Sicari and maintained.
So, today, in our insignificant peninsula, came the new slaves. But the sale is more subtle. It offers the dream of a life in peace and progress, bind her wrists with the chains of poverty and despair, starving countries and fomenting wars. You turn the fan
new slaves around the tree of oblivion, by imposing a single culture throughout all packed and ready for use.
And then the theater of liberation is flaunting an apparent magnanimity in restoring the dignity of women removing their veils. And then they buy the body trampling stories, traditions, past days and future dreams. We enclose
men, women and children in prison camps - in Brazil you would call Senzalas - which purposely leave out that number of potential thieves, murderers and whores (including children) must satisfy the perversions and delusions of power.
It sells off the job, no respect for rules and rights to be able to prosper those already rich and powerful.
Lights war of the poor. Among the poor Italians and poor foreigners.
And we all fall for.
Yet Italians need to know exactly how it works. People of travelers and migrants. But even they were forced to turn around the tree of forgetfulness and have forgotten their past third-class ghetto.
So Tell me now who are the slaves and those who are travelers.
So, tell me now if your contracts with temporary workers, your tricks-Marchionne, your absence you feel the people of passengers or people evicted.
So, tell me now, where is your memory.

Medical-surgical Nursing Test Bank

Italy: land of travelers, poets, saints and heroes - 2


poets in a trilogy about social policy today is strange. Today
true poets are hidden well. And mostly they do other jobs.
And who writes, or rather, the writer and earning good money with what he writes, does not write about politics, not writing about social problems, not writing about life, and to be honest, not even written in proper Italian.
Thus, those very few Italians who chose, by chance, to give him to the press rather than dazed in front of the TV, do not run the risk of being still in his hands too much material for thought.
Moreover since even the glorious Einaudi has passed into the hands of the emperor, any ambition is dead.
And so, we people of poets, no longer even speak in prose. Fat that runs if we speak in capital letters.
In memory of our past and the poet Eugenio Montale


RAINS

rains. It is a trickle without

thuds of scooters or
screams of children.


rains from a cycle that has
clouds.

rains on anything you do in these hours of

general strike.


raining on your grave
San Felice a Ema

and earth trembles

earthquake because there is no war.


not raining on the tale of distant
beautiful seasons, but the folder

tax collection
rains on cuttlebone,
and national manger.


rains in the Official Gazette
here from the balcony open,
rains on Parliament
raining on via Solferino,
rain without the wind
smuova cards.


rains in the absence of Hermione
God willing, it rains because the absence


is universal and if the earth does not tremble
Arcetri is because she has not ordered
.

rains on the new primate of the epistemic
to two feet,
Indian man, the sky,
optimized, the ugly face of theologians in suit

or swamps,

rains on the progress of the dispute, it rains on
works in regress ,
rains
the cypresses of the cemetery
sick, dripping
public opinion.

rains, yet it is not
water or air, raining as if you're not

is just the lack
and may drown.

Why Do I Get Pimples Onmy Scalp

Italy: land of travelers, poets , saints and heroes - 3


This post was to be the next to last in a trilogy.
But after the intervention of Famiglia Cristiana (addirittura!), I would say that the square is a bit 'burnt. So I thought to add poetry to maintain the perfect number.
I leave a couple of links just to be fair on our programmatic Prime Minister, his ministers and his minions . All
to help poor prostitutes, mothers and damsels in distress

The only saint that comes to mind is the poor San Nicola di Bari which must be turning in his grave ...

well De André but, really, there is controversy - finally - enough.
Now we hope to serve something.