An Image I put together for Turfing and I never used… This was a skull of a juvenile deer I found years ago in Mount Shasta. I still have it in a box, having put it away as some people find it hard not to stare at when it is on a table in front of them… I find it beautiful, and full of a certain grace.
We received a couple of beautiful presents today…. Laura Pendell sent a beautiful hand bound book. Her work is marvelous. The paper on the cover is hand made with a beautiful feather floating upon it. After I finish Turfing, I will take it to bed with me to read.
Peter sent some great music, which I am wading through in the next couple of days. I promise it will make it on the radio, and really, there is lots, lots of new music on Radio Free EarthRites! Give it a listen, please!

Radio Free EarthRites!
This the mid week edition, and we have some very nice picks this time of the season….
Bright Blessings!
Gwyllm
On The Menu:
The Linkage

Miracle occurs at Zaynab Mosque in Syria

The Quotes

The Stone Cutter

More Poems Of Lorca

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The Linkage:

Giving up car revs family up

World out of balance…

Shock and Awe

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Miracle occurs at Zaynab Mosque in Syria, ENTITY APPEARS

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This is footage taken at the Zaynab mosque in Syria where thousands of bystanders witnessed the sealed shut doors to A Miracle happened in the Maqam of Sayeda Zeinab (A.S) in the Arba’en of Imam Hussein (A.S) in Syria (1428 hijri – 2007).. The Shrine was firmly closed and nobody inside, and suddenly a Light came from inside the Maqam and the internal Large Gate started to open spontaneously…

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The Quotes:
“Defining and analyzing humor is a pastime of humorless people.”
“In real life, I assure you, there is no such thing as algebra.”
“No one has ever had an idea in a dress suit.”
“Irrationally held truths may be more harmful than reasoned errors.”
“Every composer knows the anguish and despair occasioned by forgetting ideas which one had no time to write down.”
“Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn’t mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar.”

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The Stone Cutter
There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life.
One day he passed a wealthy merchant’s house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. “How powerful that merchant must be!” thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant.
To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. “How powerful that official is!” he thought. “I wish that I could be a high official!”
Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. “How powerful the sun is!” he thought. “I wish that I could be the sun!”
Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. “How powerful that storm cloud is!” he thought. “I wish that I could be a cloud!”
Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. “How powerful it is!” he thought. “I wish that I could be the wind!”
Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it – a huge, towering rock. “How powerful that rock is!” he thought. “I wish that I could be a rock!”
Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. “What could be more powerful than I, the rock?” he thought.
He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.

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More Poems Of Lorca…

Gacela of Unforseen Love

No one understood the perfume

of the dark magnolia of your womb.

Nobody knew that you tormented

a hummingbird of love between your teeth.
A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep

in the plaza with moon of your forehead,

while through four nights I embraced

your waist, enemy of the snow.
Between plaster and jasmins, your glance

was a pale branch of seeds.

I sought in my heart to give you

the ivory letters that say “siempre”,
“siempre”, “siempre” : garden of my agony,

your body elusive always,

that blood of your veins in my mouth,

your mouth already lightless for my death.

The Little Ballad of the Three Rivers

The Guadalquivir’s river

runs past oranges and olives.

The two rivers of Granada,

fall, to wheatfields, out of snow.
Ay, Love, that goes,

and never returns!
The Guadalquivir’s river

has a beard of clear garnet.

The two rivers of Granada

one of sorrow, one of blood.
Ay, Love,

vanished down the wind!
For the sailing-boats,

Seville keeps a roadway:

Through the waters of Granada

only sighs can row.

Ay, Love, that went,

and never returned!

Guadalquivir – high tower,

and breeze in the orange-trees.

Dauro, Genil – dead turrets,

dead, above the ponds.

Ay, Love,

vanished down the wind!

Who can say, if water carries

a ghost-fire of cries?

Ay, Love, that went,

and never returned!

Take the orange petals,

take the leaves of olives,

Andalusia, down to your sea.
Ay, Love,

vanished on the wind!

Paso (The Images of the Passion)
Virgin in a crinoline,

Virgin of Solitude,

spreading immensely

like a tulip-flower.

In your boat of light,

go –

through the high seas

of the city.

through turbulent singing,

through crystalline stars.

Virgin in a crinoline

through the roadway’s river

you go,

down to the sea!

The Dawn
New York’s dawn holds

four mud pillars,

and a hurricane of black doves,

paddling in foul water.

New York’s dawn

moans on vast stairways,

searching on the ledges,

for anguished tuberoses.

Dawn breaks and no one’s mouth breathes it,

since hope and tomorrow, here, have no meaning.

Sometimes coins, furiously swarming,

stab and devour the abandoned children.

The first to go outside know in their bones

Paradise will not be there, nor wild loves.

They know they go to the swamp of law, and numbers,

to play without art, and labour without fruit.

The light is buried by chains and by noise,

in the shameless challenge, of rootless science.

All across the suburbs, sleepless crowds stumble,

as if saved, by the moment, from a shipwreck of blood.

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