And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
006 12 29 Points 1316 Partenaires vivaocs target blanc baznas FWD V4 solid 000 safiweb hostma 00px 3px vertical love jiji bientot hichamtoldo skyblog blank siro tssalo mehdibono wesh houssam salam sarah slt tt monde lkhassar sqal 07 wlad asfi t9admo walah mdintkom wa3ra mais ntoma mhachrine m simo simoraymy mimo moi meryem safi c est mon msn mailto soso 2005 mousi9a net hicham toldo ach hadak chi sadi9 dyalach site adrianhicham 3l makshof tamo sba7 lkhayre sba7ato lilah manak miss kawtar salut yala9ina m3a ma7san mana ou tanatmana matab9awche tkhasro fi lhadra awlade khalti msa tupac saha hi everybody souma ha7na left Votre Message auteur maxlenght msg send Voir archives google 160 600 160x600 E1771E 006699 addv Ajouter Une addm addi Photo addt Telechargement addp Devenez partenaire Signaler bug erreur Contacter 250 Codage Design par Mohamed Yassine 0021274185715 N° 17 Bloc 62 Saida 46000 ligne 94 Total 65559 Corpyright Tous droits r?
1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps.I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.