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There was a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job; and he was essentially a blameless dude, and unarrogant, and he was blessed with seven sons, and three daughters, which is a startling number ...
Grabbing my hand you drew a line on your chest, moving on to make the sign of the cross. Or so it seemed. Priest! You want a priest? I said, puzzled yet pleased to read your mind. You rolled your eyes, looked up to the ceiling, slowly shook your head.
Two blessings, one resurrected, one still in the tomb. We are not pre-Vatican. We think whole, body and soul ... We are not parrots in a pew trembling.
He drew fear from flood and seedless sun. She traded contradiction for curves and valley hips, verdant sod of earth, reckless drift of goats. When the bailiff came, the end of lamb and beef, she clung to rock and let the salt erupt ...
Mist moves here, cloaking statues, mild giants that haunt and wait... the slave breathes towardhis freedom.
She would be aghast, at the weeping litany of my sins... From the moment the apron string is cut, we are free to be. And to bring, make or undo, whatever the hell we want to.
Talk of morality is bad for rationality ... it's a derailment-factor, a self-sabotager, a barbecue-stopper, plain un-Australian ... I can help you leverage your life-goals, so that you can experience real change with improved results.
It might be an epitaph on a tombstone, or an ancient call to prayer ... Forget the ancestral trespassers, the heritage forbears, the gin and bitters people. They didn't ask, they just used their guns.
Hans shows me an invention which magnifies letters for his failing eyes, so that still he may read, so that still the winds may turn the bronze art coins of his perception. Cobweb-like sculptures dream upon some shelves, poetry is the wing of his bird-like speech.
the coast is jagged like a weeping cut .. the high end of town, pizza beer dusk ... it is here we have staked a life, counted off the steps and measured what it is we need ... hands dissolve in prayer.
Now he is pursed within the curl of his leaf, a monk at watch for those lost souls, whom he might trap in the sneer of his silken intentions.
The faith of the Irish in politics, economics and religion is at a low ebb, and for the most understandable of reasons. It is not a famine, but it is mighty grim. There are tens of thousands coming here under the 457 visa and the Irish Working Holiday Visa.
121-132 out of 200 results.