We want to be exempted. The fact that
work with the hoe, wants to realize his hoes
cut makes sense. Lag and hoes cut can not be compared with subsoil researcher
hoes cut, which makes him a great. Katorga far from where the work with the hoe. Physical horror is not at all. Katorga is where the hoes cut does not make sense, where the work has to be
working with all of humanity.
And we want to escape from katorgas.

members are those who, clinging to
the same rope, trying to achieve
the same vertex where they meet.

- more or less clear - feel
need to be born again. But solutions to the sometimes false. Of course, you can animate people, dress them in uniforms.
Then they sing war songs and share
bread with members. They will have gained
what looked for: a sense of intimacy with all of humanity.
But from the bread they will die.
You can dig up wooden idols, and to revive the ancient myths that have already proven one way or another
its power can be restored or panģermānisma
Roman mysteries. Germans can make
apskurbt excitement that they are Germans and
Beethoven\'s compatriots. It can stun all
up kuģapuikam. This, of course, is easier
than to unleash kuģapuikā Beethoven.
But those idols requires live flesh
victims. Who die on the progress of knowledge, or
to heal diseases, it serves for life even
nomirdamas. Perhaps it is beautiful to die for territorial gains, but now the war ravaging the stand by the claims. Today
it is no longer in the past, when there was little blood sacrifice in order to live a whole tribe. Since, used for war planes and mustard, wars
become a bloody surgery. Any pressure from opponents of the concrete walls under cover, anyone unable to think of anything better, Kati
at night sends squadron to drop bombs
inside the enemy\'s land, they blow up
life centers, paralyzing production and marketing. Win it, which will rot the last.
And both opponents Trud time.

The members share the taste of bread we
forced to recognize the value of war. But war is not necessary to run the common objective of
member\'s shoulder to feel the heat. The war fail us.
Hatred does not add anything passion for the race.

to make us free, it is sufficient if you help us to realize a common goal that binds
we are with each other, and the best look for it there
where it unites us all.
If a person who under the starry sky
humbly look after some sheep are aware of SACU
role, he things we did, that it is not just a servant.
He is a watchman. And every sentry is
responsible for the entire country.

When it comes to being role visnecilāko something, only then we will be happy. Only
then we can live in peace and die in peace because
what gives meaning to life, gives meaning to death.

Farmers\' generation of people will never die completely. Everyone in your life at the same time splits the pod, seeds and leaves.

Death is so soft, when it fits into the natural rhythm.

I happened to see the three farmers
at their mother\'s deathbed. Of course, it was
painful. The second time was cut umbilical cord.
It was again loosed knot that binds one
generation to another. Three sons realized that remained
one that they all have to learn that there is no longer
the family table at which to congregate holidays that life is no longer a pole, which they all
encountered.
But I found the links break
the fact that life can give twice. Also, the sons will become a family head, tightening
centers sires to come an hour when
They just pass the reins of juvenile crowd, which is currently playing in the yard.

I looked at her mother, an old farmer, with a calm face and harsh to her tightly pursed lips, the face that had turned into
stone mask. And at that I knew the son of features. After the masks were cast on their faces.
This increase was useful in order to cast in their upright, these beautiful men\'s samples. Now it lay, broken - the shell from which removed
fetus. And while the sons and daughters of their own
injury will result in small cilvēkbērnus. In these homes
people died. Mother dead, long live the mother!

full of mourning, and yes, and yet so simple family picture: generation after generation, leaving the road to their beautiful skins -
sirmgalvjus deceased - through the transformation
marching off to unknown facts.

At night I call a small village for burial
hears it seemed not to despair, and self-conscious
and subtle exultation. Call in at the same
his voice sounded a funeral and baptism, once again
iejundīja generational change. And only a
willing to shed those sounds, which was celebrated by the old
Peasant covenant with the land.

With such a slow development of the tree growing, in-
grove generation has not only life,
but also awareness. A mysterious up-
aisle! From the melt lava, from the star mass,
miraculously arose from the very same cell alive
we\'ve come and grown so slowly
far as to write cantatas and by weighing the milk
Road lights.

When we feel hungry, [. . ] That we
perceive that the world\'s creation is not yet over
and that we need to understand ourselves and the universe.
We roll the footbridge across the darkness. It wants to know
only those who made it for his wisdom
indifference to what they regarded as selfishness.
But in all the wisdom disproved.
Only the Spirit, if the breath affects the clay, capable of
cause people.

Every citizen belongs to ten meters DZIDRAS sky overhead. Heaven, who reached for cirrus clouds.