Qual è la vera Fede Cattolica? (Biblioteca Rosmini Vol. 9) (Italian Edition)

Laurie N. Ede is a Principal Lecturer in Film, Media and Applied Writing at the University of toughkforliehand.tk toughkforliehand.tk

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This style is characterized by a toasted malt aroma and slight malt sweetness.

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A French Institution Sings on, and Savors His Long Goodbye

Slowly, luxuriously, I will hollow a deep grave, With my own hands, in rich black snail-frequented soil, And lay me down, forspent with that voluptuous toil, And go to sleep, as happy as a shark in the wave. No funeral for me, no sepulcher, no hymns; Rather than beg for pity when alive, God knows, I have lain sick and shelterless, and let the crows Stab to their hearts' content at my lean festering limbs. O blithe materialists! O vermin of my last bed!

mort-vivant

Come, march remorselessly through me. Come, and devise Some curious new torment, if you can, for this Old body without soul and deader than the dead.

In a rich fertile loam where snails recess, I wish to dig my own deep roomy grave, There to stretch out my old bones, motionless, Snug in death's sleep as sharks are in the wave. Men's testaments and tombs spell queasiness, The world's laments are not a boon I crave, Sooner, while yet I live, let the crows press My carrion blood from out my skull and nave.

O worms, black comrades without eyes or ears, Behold, a dead man, glad and free, appears! Lecher philosophers, spawn of decay, Rummage remorseless through my crumbling head To tell what torture may remain today For this my soulless body which is dead. Where snails abound — in a juicy soil, I will dig for myself a fathomless grave, Where at leisure mine ancient bones I can coil, And sleep — quite forgotten — like a shark 'neath the wave.

La Spirale: Joyce Carol Oates´s French Connection

I hate every tomb — I abominate wills, And rather than tears from the world to implore, I would ask of the crows with their vampire bills To devour every bit of my carcass impure. Oh worms, without eyes, without ears, black friends! To you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends, Enlivened Philosophers — offspring of Dung! Without any qualms, o'er my wreckage spread, And tell if some torment there still can be wrung For this soul-less old frame that is dead 'midst the dead! In a soil full of snails and free from stones I fain would dig myself a pit full deep, Where I might lay at ease my aged bones And, like a wave-borne shark, forgetful sleep.