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Monday came in, wet, soggy. Fall is here for sure. Sunflowers are falling over, and harvest time is here. A squirrel made off with one of our sunflower heads, daring thief! The visuals are a bit much, how did he do it? Maybe by squirrel committee?
Here is to a beautiful week, and wonderful times ahead.
Blessings,
Gwyllm

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Video without the Pics, Balkan Style…

The Gift of Insults

Poetry: Lorca (with one of his drawings)

Art: Franz von Stuck

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Forget Me Not Panties!

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Carbon dating casts doubt on age of St Francis robe

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Video without the Pics, Balkan Style…

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The Gift of Insults
There once lived a great warrior. Though quite old, he still was able to defeat any challenger. His reputation extended far and wide throughout the land and many students gathered to study under him.
One day an infamous young warrior arrived at the village. He was determined to be the first man to defeat the great master. Along with his strength, he had an uncanny ability to spot and exploit any weakness in an opponent. He would wait for his opponent to make the first move, thus revealing a weakness, and then would strike with merciless force and lightning speed. No one had ever lasted with him in a match beyond the first move.
Much against the advice of his concerned students, the old master gladly accepted the young warrior’s challenge. As the two squared off for battle, the young warrior began to hurl insults at the old master. He threw dirt and spit in his face. For hours he verbally assaulted him with every curse and insult known to mankind. But the old warrior merely stood there motionless and calm. Finally, the young warrior exhausted himself. Knowing he was defeated, he left feeling shamed.
Somewhat disappointed that he did not fight the insolent youth, the students gathered around the old master and questioned him. “How could you endure such an indignity? How did you drive him away?”
“If someone comes to give you a gift and you do not receive it,” the master replied, “to whom does the gift belong?”

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Poems of Lorca….

Song of the Moon, Moon

-to Conchita García Lorca
The moon came to the forge

with her bustle of nards.

The boy watches the sight.

The boy is watching her.
In the trembling air

the moon moves her arm

and lewd and pure shows

her breasts of hard tin.
“Run Moon, Moon, Moon.

If the gypsies came

they would twist your heart

into chains and rings of white.”
“Boy, let me dance.

When the gypsies come,

they’ll find you on the anvil,

fast asleep.”
“Run Moon, Moon, Moon,

because I hear their horses now.”

“Boy, leave my whiteness

unmarred.”
The rider approached

tapping his tamborine.

Inside the forge was the boy,

with his eyes closed.
Through the olive grove they came,

all bronze and dreams, the gypsies.

Their heads lifted up,

their eyes half-shut.
“How the owl sings, Ay!

how the tawny owl sings in the tree!”

Through the sky the moon takes

the boy by the hand.
Inside the forge, the gypsies

cry and give shouts.

The wind guards, it guards.

The wind is guarding it.
(Drawing by Federico García Lorca)

Song of the Horseman
Córdoba,

distant and alone.
Black pony, big moon,

olives in my saddlebag.

Though I know these roads,

I’ll never reach Córdoba.
Through the plains, through wind,

black pony, red moon,

death watching me

from the high towers of Córdoba.
Ay! What a long road.

Ay! What a brave pony.

Ay! Death, you will take me,

on the road to Córdoba.
Córdoba,

distant and alone.

Ditty of First Desire

In the green morning

I wanted to be a heart.

A heart.
And in the ripe evening

I wanted to be a nightingale.

A nightingale.
(Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.)
In the vivid morning

I wanted to be myself.

A heart.
And at the evening’s end

I wanted to be my voice.

A nightingale.
Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.