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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Our species believes it progresses without limitation. We shout when a swimmer wins silver, 'That's no inspiration'. As humans pound forward, no 'burden of care' limitation ... We deserve only winners, our species the sole inspiration.
At times the music holds him still, and a jonquil light beams through two pinholes in his brain, singing of a caged soul.
Blessed are those with empty chests, soles ripped from their shoes, fed to dogs. But most blessed are those who stole the hound scraps, nailed them to their feet and kept on marching.
Sophie, a Malagay slave in Mauritius, torched a barn housing a collection of leather straps — the flames soaring like the sounds of the black horses inside — and was packed off in a ship-sized crate to New South Wales.
I want you to list the epiphanies in your lives, says the lecturer. We'll build poems around them... I ponder, but cannot manage to think of one. Does he really believe people have several? My extra years are like binoculars peered through from the wrong end, shrinking past significance to present inconsequence.
More than once I observed him walking from the Medley Building of the University of Melbourne to Newman College reading a book, not looking up. It was the book leading the human through the everyday world.
Here's the mint still on my hands. A wreath, so Pliny thought was 'good for students, to exhilarate their minds'. Late in the course, I’ll settle for a sprig or two.
The bed on which I lie is scientifically sprung, approved by chiropractors ... and blessed from on high by Klimt ... Made by a woman Timor-thin, cross-legged on concrete.
The hands which pressed triggers, wielded knives at innocent throats, were once the gentle sons of others playing in sand pits, shadowed from scorching winds, while I ferried my own to schoolyard bunkers and safe horizons.
My dad and his RSL mates repeatedly told us 'Vietnam was a toy-boy war, only 501 died' as though numbers are a marker of grief. My tears often fall in an unremitting flood for eight mates who committed suicide soon after they arrived back home.
'No matter what we say it's about, it's about kids,' says the archbishop. 'If it's not about kids then it's not first priority. The worst sins ever committed are against kids. That will never occur again, not here, not if I have anything to do with it.'
Never hoards it, for he has new urns to make, for us to admire and, sometimes, to love.
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