The human beings' conventions don't allow, they manufacture run of obstacles for the love to perish.

I didn't wake up, in the dream I continued, I fascinated myself, there is a lot that I don't get him, I am arrested, handcuffed in the god's destiny without love that the men invented. And of him I don't dare to free me because I don't want him. I want in him to wake up, never of him to separate and always seeking, to seek, to pursue and to suck the elixir stored in your breasts.

Your love, is the millennia of the ignored times of the mysterious messages in the caves, of the strings of the clarities that feed dreaming of the Humanity and that they still subdue our souls.

It is always of interlaced hands traveled, we ran and we felt the taste of the endless, always renewable sand that molded our steps. And tired, already later seating, approximate for the movement of the universal attraction of our bodies, we dreamed about the preview of the painted screen for the currents of the marine sonority.

An or other fish Alpine accentor agitated, it jumped to escape to an any predator, in the insistence that sea without fish is not possible.

A flamingo walked with their long legs, it hunted some open marine shell or some minuscule crab.

The tide grew and it flooded the growth of mangroves and it showed as that other sea, other life, of the which once in a while remembered.

A powerboat approaches very fast, the noise of her mixed movement with the human shouting, they disturb, they agitate, they riot the sea life that disappears in an apex, and he hid. And the boat stopped, somebody threw a rope with a tied stone, very heavy. On board three occupants, that swift prepares their fishing canes, baited them and they threw their very distant nylon threads. Put-in the board rests and they laugh her as children, they caught each one in her beer, they sat down and they began to eat sandwiches. Suddenly the civilization arrived.

And the disturbance lasted long, it didn't end, it continued, and our love afflicted, the concentration fled us. And of the sea he seemed to do, to hear a sound that prevented us: navigate; navigate sailors in the oceans of the love. And the sun, as that obeying her some unknown command, he opened up, he came unfastened, and everything seemed to be, first yellow, later very white, transparent, and everything rejuvenated, of life he became full.

We support us more to our intimacy desiring that these moments the eternity welcomed. The human beings' conventions don't allow they manufacture run of obstacles for the love to perish. But no… it is not possible because just somebody is enough to believe in him, and he appears as that for charm, overpowering, dear, lover, eternal love. The love is the fire that illuminates the light of those that, lost in the darkness of the jungle of the life, it guides them pursued, the hunters of the passion of the love.

Image: The trip! He desired for her. Problem: how to say good-bye?

retocandootom.blogspot.com

Lin Zhao Wrote Poetry In Blood So Her Comrades Could Run Their Liquor-Addled Mouths

This is obscure Chinese poet Lin Zhao. She was executed by the Chinese government in 1968, at the age of 36 and the height of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. For the decade or so prior she had been imprisoned, for the crime of not confessing to being a counterrevolutionary. Maybe a half million people died during the Cultural Revolution and Lin Zhao probably would have gone completely forgotten, but for the fact that she'd earned a reputation as being one of the few women at her college who liked to drink and dance and run her mouth, and also the fact that she was so pissed about being locked up and tortured when she'd been such a devoted Communist that she wrote hundreds of thousands of words worth of poetry about it, using her own blood.

Oh yeah, and none of that would have been discovered if an intrepid photographer for state-run news service Xinhua hadn't learned all this upon learning a few stories about Lin and daring to ask the question, "But why would the Party imprison someone so clearly passionate about socialism and the brotherhood of the proletariat?" After all, she had supervised a the execution of a landlord.

No really, he really wondered this. See, your average Chinese college student is almost as ill-informed about the Cultural Revolution as your average American college student. The difference is that your average Chinese college student, upon realizing this, might find something actually wrong with that.

For nearly a month, he had been trying to learn about Lin Zhao, an obscure poet who grew up not far from Nanjing and attended Peking University in the 1950s. A friend told him that of all the students at the school, Lin was the only one who refused to write a political confession during the Anti-Rightist Campaign, Mao Zedong's 1957 purge of Communist Party critics. Her intransigence was rewarded with a prison term, and then a death sentence at the age of 36. But she left behind a secret legacy: She had continued writing in prison, using her own blood as ink.

Hu was stunned. He had never heard a story like Lin's, never imagined that anything like it could happen in China. He began looking into her story and was quickly drawn in. It was as if he had stumbled upon a mystery waiting to be unraveled. Why had she been executed? What did she do?

In essence: she basically just refused to shut her mouth, or succumb to torture and use it to take back everything she said about the Communist Party needing scrutiny and input from dissidents etc. etc.

Hu read feverishly deep into the night. The document was ostensibly a letter to the People's Daily, the party's official newspaper, but it was unlike any letter he had ever seen. Lin condemned the Anti-Rightist Campaign and accused the party of taking advantage of the idealism of her generation. She wrote of the abuse she suffered in prison, of guards who handcuffed her in painful positions and force-fed her through her nostrils. She described how she wrote in blood after they took away her pen, and how the prison saved her writing to use against her. Occasionally the letter deteriorated into an incoherent rant, but every page was brimming with emotion and defiance.

Anyway, an ex-boyfriend of Lin Zhao daringly managed to save the poems, which is more than you can say for all the countless other priceless ancient edifices, artifacts, artistic and literary works and sundry other manifestations of counterrevolutionary thought destroyed during the campaign, and when Hu Jie got hold of them, he decided to film a documentary about Lin. Of course, since China is decades ahead of us on FISA-type tricks, the authorities were onto him, but after a brief chat, they decided not to break his legs or anything. So, the documentary is out and Lin's story can now go on to activate the spirits of that tiny half-percentage of the population interested in things like mob rule and groupthink and the disarming sincerity of the victims of some of history's most incomprehensible acts of cruelty... and maybe what the consequences suffered by people dedicated to the seemingly benign pursuit of the truth can teach us about the present condition.

While leaving the rest of us to ponder such questions as, 'So you think she used her menstrual blood?'

A Past Written In Blood [Washington Post]

Out Of Mao's Shadow [Amazon]

To Remember History: Hu Jie Talks About His Documentaries [Senses Of Cinema]

http://jezebel.com/5022571/lin-zhao-wrote-poetry-in-blood-so-her-comrades-could-run-their-liquor+addled-mouths

The source of the eternal beauty of the love

And of the source it drained the beauty of the eternal love. And the jasmines-of-poets surrounded her but they never agitated her. In the air he did feel - or was it heard? - the jasmine perfume that insisted, confused, the collective memory of our senses of the love. And a butterfly-blue of undecided flight, some times it arose, other times it went down, seeming that it will land, but no, he only wanted to fly. And for some time the solar rays perforated the green rifts and they projected, they revealed the magic of their luminous focuses. And the monotonous whisper of the water that was slippery, no… if it moved, it attracted us the profundities of the neurons. It was the Universe of the beauty of the royalty of the profundity of the love. Per times in the scenery seemed be heard children's voices, what did with that our spirit if it misled, because we wanted to return to the reality but we didn't get. A couple of hummingbirds approaches to quaver as that to announce, suddenly we are to arrive. A small catfish slid in a deeper point and it analyzed, it tried the culinary offers that were within her reach.

And the sky darkened, the nature ennobled, and the day of so darkness as that it perished. Some fallen drops of water in our faces forced us to remember, for the high of the sky to look. To wake up, that after all over us something exists, and that we only remembered that when the rain kisses our bodies. And the jasmine-of-poets camp being whipped by the windy vacancies that worsened stubborn, they were anxious dark. The poor trunks supported the foliages that reminded a ship in the frenzied movements on the high seas boxed by the marine mountains. And the windstorm folded again of force, they were already heard the whistles of her orchestration. The rain arose and /her tone emitted, as in Whole Lotta Love, of Led Zeppelin.

And the love hides in the secret of the silence of a woman's lips. She is the Universe and her reincarnation. More valuable it exists to the terrestrial surface, therefore, planetary, that the profundity of a woman's suit smile. And when she is present everything disappears. She is the present of permanent birthday of the human species.

There is who rents her for some time her love, but her when in that noticed fast moves her an action of spilling of her heart.

And the tragedy of the pure love in a lot supplants the one of Titanic.

There is always somebody a lot, very famous, but that keels over in the solitude, because it is her impossible to live without love in the heart.

When a woman's glance irradiates the eternity of the fortress of her intimacy, everything to her circuit became enchanted, it is illuminated, because it is a lot for besides the mystic of the love.

When we contemplated a flower, we let to arrest us for her air white, attractive. It is like this that the love works.

Let us don't leave the love given to her luck

They say that it exists a lost city of the love somewhere, and that all the lovers are seduced mysteriously by her. And you? Don't they want to unmask the mystery of that city?

To love is to wait calmly that the sea finally one decide to send Ulisses for her goddess of the love, Penélope.

And desire that from now on all of the women of the world call themselves, Penélope. And all of the men, Ulisses.

Her, the woman, is, he will be, and for ever and ever she will stay, the source of the eternal beauty of the love, where the thirsty of love in her will take a bath, they will fall in love, and the love will never betray.

He lives and it frees the force of the love that exists in you.

The contemplation is the insurance road of the divine. We looked at the water of our lake and suddenly we woke up of a dream, as if knocked down in the eternal asleep. Did we sleep because we dreamed, or did we dream because we slept and didn't we still wake up?

We woke up and we sought our glance. We tried to focus what happens to our turn, but still sleepy we verified the fragility of our soul. Per times, a lot of times?, did we fear to sleep, because they wait in the nightmares that force us to scream. But, there it is the love for in the awakening, to approximate, to survive.

Our destiny is in the loved person. Before that, our imagination fills with fantasies, of marvels, and fantastic doors open up and they show us after all the secrets of the other dimensions that exist. That the love is freed of the prison of our soul. In him it begins and it ends, the secret of the life is revealed. He lives and it frees the force of the love that exists in you.

Chinese story

A husband was to visit a wise person counselor and he told him that no longer he loved her wife and that he thought about separating.

The wise person listened to him, he looked at him in the eyes and he told him just a word:

- Love her. It is soon remained silent.

- But, no longer I feel anything for her!

- Love her, he told him again the wise person.

And before her disorder, after a brief silence, he told him the following:

To "love is a decision, no a feeling. To love is dedication and delivery.

To love is a verb and the fruit of that action is the love.

The love is a gardening exercise. Start that does badly, prepare the land, sow, be patient, water and take care.

Be prepared because there will be curses, droughts or excesses of rains but nor for that he abandons her garden.

Love her pair, in other words, accept him, value him, respect him, give affection and tenderness, admire and understand him.

That is everything.

Love!!! "

The intelligence without love, does you perverse.

The justice without love, does you implacable.

The diplomacy without love, makes you hypocrite.

The success without love, does you arrogant.

The wealth without love, makes you greedy person.

The docility without love does you servile.

The poverty without love, does you proud.

The beauty without love, does you ridiculous.

The authority without love, makes you tyrant.

The work without love, makes you slave.

The simplicity without love, depreciates you.

The prayer without love, does you introverted.

The law without love, enslaves you.

The politics without love, leaves you selfish.

The faith without love leaves you fanatic.

The life without love… without love she doesn't have sense.

http://vagner200494.wordpress.com/2005/12/02/conto-Chinese /

Image: Wonderful landscapes of China. br.taringa.net