The first poem dat wordt uitgelegd more or less how I Felt the Past few days, is one to Uys Krige I

I like mountains. I also like animals very much. I loved my dog Charlie and have been loved by my grandmother as well who called HIM: Cherry in April He was a chihuahua and was a great reminder in many respects other people or from the family quilt rack of my grandfather who died Used to have Chihuahuas.
The first poem dat wordt uitgelegd more or less how I Felt the Past few days, is one to Uys Krige It is called: Swallows above the camp. Swallows ABOVE THE CAMP A strange silence reigns in the camp. The afternoon glow gold like a lamp. The leaves are falling. quilt rack Winter is upon us. Europe perish in sorrow and shame. Autumn die so quiet, so sweet. The camp is in the light glow. The swallows skim the kamponge. The world of hatred distorted. The cancer eating marrow and blood. I want to educate the silence ... only in my time something like a cramp. Loudly in my heart I heard the bombs bump. Every barrier roaring cannons. We find peace again? From what sources? The swallows come, the swallows times. We find, we find love again? The bomb stores city and town to pieces. But here there's swallows and their chatter, chatter ... Oh swallows black as brocades your orbit over the barbed wire, in broad strokes just around quilt rack our circle while your singing and singing and singing as if singing to the blue vault you the voice of peace itself, remember me when your going south at the end of the long course your dive and shoot and gently floating over the red roof where, Eulalia, live ... Then sing to her, sing to her stay at his enchanted after you stare. Pending your gently over her shaved, I'll quilt rack come back, and I come back and my dreams watch over her bed. Give her, swallows, my tenderness ... just written in October 1942 During the Past few days, I have leg Trying to recover from physical as well Wounds When some uncalled for did came up not only in the life of someone else, but in mine as well. You see, a lot share what they 'have one hun mind on facebook. Yet, with my fits, and the reality I live life with, I have to ackwoledge a sum / problem and Can not ignore it, and this sum had the feel of something like the poem above. Today, I went out. There is a place on a hill Which is quiet. I hang out here now. It was being here on the hill I Came across a poem by Uys Krige That I am really, really seeking. So I Came down to the library on the hill and found the whole poem. And some others. quilt rack The original poem Which took me to the library is the one .... Following farmgate Blood Red aloe along the winding path. It is as if every rocket sparks from flying. But nothing, nothing ... just stir a breeze glancing at the blade of grass ritselinde barrel. Above the blue, blue sky, beneath the river that meanders quilt rack through the orchards with a green flair. Nothing save the YLE floating mountain silence here. After all these years I again make a farm gate open. Where did my roads do not run to me by a gate to bring all of my swan stripped, but my mind clear and my heart hope? The gate in the skad'wee of a baobab. The silence in me nothing's perfect quilt rack with troebels, not confused. I cut the light ... I make a gate open in my heart. Vision Summits of copper, ravines of git and at the farthest red rose hill a village distant and vague and white. A Tydelose silence here as if the mountains to pray. The evening floats in the clear day yonder here and there a black wig. But the gigantic valley is a gleaming vision with me and between that village nothing but a sea of golden light. It's as if I'm in a world is staring at another for twenty years has passed and here, it seems, nothing has changed. There rises a sadness in me slowly quilt rack like a silent burner. These poems are all three poems by Uys Krige. Following the poem have wrote I find very amuzing - he must have had an amazing imagination Which I like very much. The poem is called: Song of the Fascist bombers (At Petronella) Our buzzing quilt rack of the blue. We roaring above the earth. Listen! Listen! We are the voice of the new Spain and the new crusade '37 in the year of our Dear Lord in our white flags, the banners, the plumes quilt rack ... We blow all the winds. We stream from all quarters. We waving triumphantly to the balconies of the blue sky above the white terraces of heaven; and our voice is a cry of joy and triumph: Living Christ the King! We are better than the albatrosses, we are whiter than the seagulls, we are faster than the human mind: before you see one, if you we had hardly heard, we fall shadow on you, we stand high above your head, Shoot us about your city and a height of two sea miles will we eggs in the nest of golden Spain. We are the wings of angels, hear their noise, hear them roar! Listen! Listen to how we sing our song of love muttered how our pious prayers. For we are the rosary of the bishops quilt rack and high priests. We slip through their fingers gebenedyde. They patiently tack us, they count us e