Poems

hit me like a puff
light breeze of the sea.

There is no longer racial or language differences, there is no disagreement, there is only a poor nomad who imposed on us on his shoulders Archangel
hands.

Thou who saved us, the Libyan Bedouin, you
izgaisīsi forever from my memory.
I never neatcerēšos your face. You\'re a man, and your image, I view all people
at the same time. Do you had not looked at us, but
Now we knew. You are our beloved brother.
And while I would recognize you in all people.
Flowing out of you greatness and grace, the great Lord, with copper quenching thirst. All
my friends, all my enemies come in you
meet me, and me in the world there are no more the enemy.

people, as we know, everything is controversial. One is provided livelihood to give
him the opportunity to lead, but he falls asleep, gained victory spoils and weakens the conquerors; generously
was the wealth becomes a miser. What we
give political doctrine aimed at - people prosperity, if we first know
what type of people it will. What will the world?
We are not uzbarojams bars, and a poor Pascal appearance means a lot more than a few nameless lucky birth.

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.