" Honduras " Vergara titled this cartoon ... But I find that has a more universal relevance ...
What do you think?
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Pinnacle Tvcenter Windows 7
Freedom ...
" Honduras " Vergara titled this cartoon ... But I find that has a more universal relevance ...
What do you think?
" Honduras " Vergara titled this cartoon ... But I find that has a more universal relevance ...
What do you think?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Nautical Star For Houses
For Honduras ...
I join Hadabruja , in his tribute to the heroic resistance of the Honduran people, with these verses Miguel Hernández, and Serrat's song in his younger days ...
I join Hadabruja , in his tribute to the heroic resistance of the Honduran people, with these verses Miguel Hernández, and Serrat's song in his younger days ...
The Wounded
(1939)
I
On the battlefields extend the wounded.
And from that field extension
wrestlers skip a cornfield in hot jets, extended
in husky voices.
Blood always rains up to the sky.
And the wounds they sound, like seashells,
when the wounds swiftness of flight,
essence of the waves.
blood smells of the sea, sea and wine tastes.
sea winery, wine bravo,
bursts where the wounded man drowns, shuddering,
and flowers, and is.
I am wounded, look at me: I need more lives.
The one that is too small for the great task
want to lose blood from wounds.
Tell me who was not injured.
My life is a happy childhood injury.
unto those who are not wounded, who never feels
wounded by life, or life lies wounded
cheerfully!
If even the hospitals are going with joy,
orchards become gaping wounds,
of oleanders bloom before the surgery.
of bloody doors.
II
bleed for freedom, fight, live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
as a tree of blood, generous and imprisoned, I
surgeons.
of freedom I feel more hearts
that sand in my chest, my veins are foams,
and go into the hospitals, and entered the cotton
as lilies.
of freedom I loose in battle
of those who have rolled his statue in the mud.
And I break loose shots of my feet of my arms,
my house, everything.
Because where some empty matted,
she will put two stones into the future,
and make new arms and legs to grow new
in meat harvested.
sprout winged autumn sap without
relics of my body I lose every wound.
Because I am like the tree cut down, that sucker:
because even I have a life.
On the battlefields extend the wounded.
And from that field extension
wrestlers skip a cornfield in hot jets, extended
in husky voices.
Blood always rains up to the sky.
And the wounds they sound, like seashells,
when the wounds swiftness of flight,
essence of the waves.
blood smells of the sea, sea and wine tastes.
sea winery, wine bravo,
bursts where the wounded man drowns, shuddering,
and flowers, and is.
I am wounded, look at me: I need more lives.
The one that is too small for the great task
want to lose blood from wounds.
Tell me who was not injured.
My life is a happy childhood injury.
unto those who are not wounded, who never feels
wounded by life, or life lies wounded
cheerfully!
If even the hospitals are going with joy,
orchards become gaping wounds,
of oleanders bloom before the surgery.
of bloody doors.
II
bleed for freedom, fight, live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
as a tree of blood, generous and imprisoned, I
surgeons.
of freedom I feel more hearts
that sand in my chest, my veins are foams,
and go into the hospitals, and entered the cotton
as lilies.
of freedom I loose in battle
of those who have rolled his statue in the mud.
And I break loose shots of my feet of my arms,
my house, everything.
Because where some empty matted,
she will put two stones into the future,
and make new arms and legs to grow new
in meat harvested.
sprout winged autumn sap without
relics of my body I lose every wound.
Because I am like the tree cut down, that sucker:
because even I have a life.
Miguel Hernández
"Although the fall of your graves cover story with apparent dust of oblivion, never give up or to oldest our dreams "Miguel Hernández
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Simple Fold Fan Serviette
February 6, 1694: Macaques. The last expedition against Palmares
The Indian hunter, killer of many miles of Indian, born of mother India. Guarani and Portuguese speaking almost nothing. Domingos Jorge Velho Mameluke captain San Pablo, Mestizos who have sown terror in the middle of Brazil on behalf of the colonial masters and fierce exorcism than half of his blood.
In the past six years, Captain Sunday rented his services to the Portuguese crown against the Indians janduim, raised in the backwoods of Pernambuco and Rio Grande do Norte. After a long butcher comes to Recife, victorious, and there he was hired to raze Palmares. They offer a nice booty and black land for sale in Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires, plus infinite promise amnesties, four orders habits religiosas y treinta grados militares para repartir entre sus hombres.
Con el catalejo en bandolera sobre el pecho desnudo, abierta la casaca grasienta, el capitán Domingos desfila a caballo por las calles de Recife, a la cabeza de sus oficiales mestizos y sus soldados indios degolladores de indios. Cabalga entre nubes de polvo y olores de pólvora y aguardiente, atravesando ovaciones y bandadas de pañuelos blancos: este mesías nos salvará de los negros alzados, cree o quiere la gente, convencida de que los cimarrones tienen la culpa de la falta de brazos en los ingenios y también tienen la culpa de las pestes y las drought that scorched the northeast, because God will not send health or the rain is not ceased, the scandal of Palmares.
and is organized crusade. Volunteers come from all sides, driven by hunger, looking for safe serving. Emptied prisons: prisoners to join the largest army yet assembled in Brazil.
The Indian scouts go forward and the rear black porters. Nine thousand men through the jungle, they come to the mountain and climb to the summit where you can admire the fortifications of Macaques. This time carry guns. Several days
duration of the siege. The guns annihilated the triple wall of wood and stone. Melee fights, on the edge. There are so many dead that there is nowhere to fall, and continues the degollatina among the bushes. Many blacks attempting to flee and slip into the void by the cliffs, and many are choosing to throw off the cliff.
The flames devour the capital of Palmares. From the distant city of Porto Calvo you see the glow of the gigantic bonfire burning all night. Burn to memory. Hunting horns never stop proclaiming the victory.
Zumbi chief, wounded, managed to escape. From the peaks comes to the jungle. Wanders through the green tunnels in the woods, looking for yours.
The Indian hunter, killer of many miles of Indian, born of mother India. Guarani and Portuguese speaking almost nothing. Domingos Jorge Velho Mameluke captain San Pablo, Mestizos who have sown terror in the middle of Brazil on behalf of the colonial masters and fierce exorcism than half of his blood.
In the past six years, Captain Sunday rented his services to the Portuguese crown against the Indians janduim, raised in the backwoods of Pernambuco and Rio Grande do Norte. After a long butcher comes to Recife, victorious, and there he was hired to raze Palmares. They offer a nice booty and black land for sale in Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires, plus infinite promise amnesties, four orders habits religiosas y treinta grados militares para repartir entre sus hombres.
Con el catalejo en bandolera sobre el pecho desnudo, abierta la casaca grasienta, el capitán Domingos desfila a caballo por las calles de Recife, a la cabeza de sus oficiales mestizos y sus soldados indios degolladores de indios. Cabalga entre nubes de polvo y olores de pólvora y aguardiente, atravesando ovaciones y bandadas de pañuelos blancos: este mesías nos salvará de los negros alzados, cree o quiere la gente, convencida de que los cimarrones tienen la culpa de la falta de brazos en los ingenios y también tienen la culpa de las pestes y las drought that scorched the northeast, because God will not send health or the rain is not ceased, the scandal of Palmares.
and is organized crusade. Volunteers come from all sides, driven by hunger, looking for safe serving. Emptied prisons: prisoners to join the largest army yet assembled in Brazil.
The Indian scouts go forward and the rear black porters. Nine thousand men through the jungle, they come to the mountain and climb to the summit where you can admire the fortifications of Macaques. This time carry guns. Several days
duration of the siege. The guns annihilated the triple wall of wood and stone. Melee fights, on the edge. There are so many dead that there is nowhere to fall, and continues the degollatina among the bushes. Many blacks attempting to flee and slip into the void by the cliffs, and many are choosing to throw off the cliff.
The flames devour the capital of Palmares. From the distant city of Porto Calvo you see the glow of the gigantic bonfire burning all night. Burn to memory. Hunting horns never stop proclaiming the victory.
Zumbi chief, wounded, managed to escape. From the peaks comes to the jungle. Wanders through the green tunnels in the woods, looking for yours.
CarF photos.
Text of Eduardo Galeano (Proceedings of the fire )
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Prolyexis Male Emhancement
painful existential vacuum ... Where
share this text Leonardo Boff, I found the blog of Alejandra .
human being: the poetic and prosaic
One of the most inspired German poets, Friedrich Höderlin (1770-1843), said: "Man dwells poetically Earth." This thought then completed a French thinker Edgar Morin: "The human being lives too prosaically Earth." Poetry and prose in addition to being literary, existential express two modes of being.
involves creating poetry that makes the person feel taken by a larger force that brings unusual connections, new lighting, new directions. Under the force of creation sings the person leaves the routine assumes different paths. Then comes the shaman that is hidden in every person, this provision makes us tune with the energies of the universe, taking the pulse of the heart of another nature and of God himself. In this capacity discover new meanings of reality.
"Inhabiting the Earth poetically" means to feel like something alive, evocative, grand and magical. The Earth's landscapes, colors, smells, fascination and mystery. Why did not ecstasy at the majesty of the Amazon jungle with its trees which extended hands upward, with the tangle of lianas and vines, with the subtle nuances of green, red and yellow, with the chirping of birds and the abundance of its fruits? How Not to be amazed by the vastness of the waters that penetrate slowly into the thicket and down gently to the ocean? Why did not feel full of awe when walking for hours through the virgin forest, as several times I had to do with Chico Mendes? How not to feel small, lost, a small bug with its priceless biodiversity?
poetic dwelling in the world when the skin feel soft freshness of the morning, when we suffer under the summer heat of the midday sun, when we calm at sunset, when we invade the mystery of the darkness of night. We shudder, vibrate, we are filled with tenderness and awe before us the Earth in its inexhaustible vitality and to meet the beloved. Then live the way of being poetic. Unfortunately
are blind and deaf and lobotomy victims of modern positivist paradigm simply those who see the Earth as a laboratory for physical-chemical elements, like a disjointed conglomeration of things juxtaposed. No, she is alive, Mother and Pachamama.
prosaically also inhabit the Earth. The prose reflects the everyday life and everyday gray, made of family and social tensions, such as schedules and professional duties, with discrete hidden joys and sorrows, but also hides priceless prose. Are discovered after a long stay in a hospital, or hurry back after spending months away from home painful. Nothing softer than the serene passing of the hours and housework and professional. It gives us the feeling of smooth sailing through the sea of \u200b\u200blife. Poetry and Prose
coexist and alternate from time to time. We need to ensure the poetic and the prosaic of our lives, because they complement and are in danger of trivialization.
Mass culture has distorted the poetic. Leisure, which would the time of rupture of the mundane, has been imprisoned by the entertainment culture that encourages visitors to excess consumption of alcohol, drugs and sex. It is a poetic tamed, not ecstatic, enjoyment without charm.
prosaic has been converted into simple Darwinian struggle for survival, exhausting people with monotonous jobs, without hope of enjoying the deserved rest. And when it is hostage to those who have thought of everything for them, organize them and make your trip unforgettable experiences. And they get it. But since everything is artificially induced, the effect is a painful existential void. And then give them antidepressants. Learn
Lightness live with the mundane and the poetic enthusiasm is indicative of a fully human life.
To me, I think that lately, or poetic, or prosaic ... say that I have lived, proletariat ...
share this text Leonardo Boff, I found the blog of Alejandra .
human being: the poetic and prosaic
One of the most inspired German poets, Friedrich Höderlin (1770-1843), said: "Man dwells poetically Earth." This thought then completed a French thinker Edgar Morin: "The human being lives too prosaically Earth." Poetry and prose in addition to being literary, existential express two modes of being.
involves creating poetry that makes the person feel taken by a larger force that brings unusual connections, new lighting, new directions. Under the force of creation sings the person leaves the routine assumes different paths. Then comes the shaman that is hidden in every person, this provision makes us tune with the energies of the universe, taking the pulse of the heart of another nature and of God himself. In this capacity discover new meanings of reality.
"Inhabiting the Earth poetically" means to feel like something alive, evocative, grand and magical. The Earth's landscapes, colors, smells, fascination and mystery. Why did not ecstasy at the majesty of the Amazon jungle with its trees which extended hands upward, with the tangle of lianas and vines, with the subtle nuances of green, red and yellow, with the chirping of birds and the abundance of its fruits? How Not to be amazed by the vastness of the waters that penetrate slowly into the thicket and down gently to the ocean? Why did not feel full of awe when walking for hours through the virgin forest, as several times I had to do with Chico Mendes? How not to feel small, lost, a small bug with its priceless biodiversity?
poetic dwelling in the world when the skin feel soft freshness of the morning, when we suffer under the summer heat of the midday sun, when we calm at sunset, when we invade the mystery of the darkness of night. We shudder, vibrate, we are filled with tenderness and awe before us the Earth in its inexhaustible vitality and to meet the beloved. Then live the way of being poetic. Unfortunately
are blind and deaf and lobotomy victims of modern positivist paradigm simply those who see the Earth as a laboratory for physical-chemical elements, like a disjointed conglomeration of things juxtaposed. No, she is alive, Mother and Pachamama.
prosaically also inhabit the Earth. The prose reflects the everyday life and everyday gray, made of family and social tensions, such as schedules and professional duties, with discrete hidden joys and sorrows, but also hides priceless prose. Are discovered after a long stay in a hospital, or hurry back after spending months away from home painful. Nothing softer than the serene passing of the hours and housework and professional. It gives us the feeling of smooth sailing through the sea of \u200b\u200blife. Poetry and Prose
coexist and alternate from time to time. We need to ensure the poetic and the prosaic of our lives, because they complement and are in danger of trivialization.
Mass culture has distorted the poetic. Leisure, which would the time of rupture of the mundane, has been imprisoned by the entertainment culture that encourages visitors to excess consumption of alcohol, drugs and sex. It is a poetic tamed, not ecstatic, enjoyment without charm.
prosaic has been converted into simple Darwinian struggle for survival, exhausting people with monotonous jobs, without hope of enjoying the deserved rest. And when it is hostage to those who have thought of everything for them, organize them and make your trip unforgettable experiences. And they get it. But since everything is artificially induced, the effect is a painful existential void. And then give them antidepressants. Learn
Lightness live with the mundane and the poetic enthusiasm is indicative of a fully human life.
Leonardo Boff is the author of The Awakening of the eagle: the demonic and the symbolic construction of reality, Trotta, Madrid, 2000.
Claudio Parente Photos / swaily , Kaj Bjurman, blinked, jaffa48 , deputy , Miguel_CD .
Claudio Parente Photos / swaily , Kaj Bjurman, blinked, jaffa48 , deputy , Miguel_CD .
To me, I think that lately, or poetic, or prosaic ... say that I have lived, proletariat ...
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
Vhs-c Without Adapter
should be .. Where have I been ...
... Deposit of junk ... (Http://corotos.blogspot.com/) 
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