Thanks for the Gift of Life!!

Creations of the heart are blooming like flowers in the field.

The wonders of nature are entwined everywhere.

My spirit overflows. Footprints of the piper are sealed

In the pristine dunes while the echo of the wind

Unfolds whispering melodies.

Dreamland begins to roam freely...

Hear me coming as I go.

I am the wind, the trip into the mist, the sea...

Hear the echo of voices, the heartbeats of waves crushing

On the sand, as I leave my footprints on the land.

Hear the roaring thunder, for my crying is just a reminder.

Please, let the world be and set them all free!!



Tuesday, August 25, 2009

HAMLET. "To be or not to be." (Act 3)

HAMLET. "To be or not to be."
(Act 3, Scene 1)

To be, or not to be, that is the question
Whether it´s nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to -´tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there is the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There´s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor´s wrong, the proud man´s contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law´s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No travelers returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy horizons
Be all my sins remembered.

Author: William Shakespeare.

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