bsh1 Memorial Profile Pick of the Week No. 1:DIAS de los MUERTOS

Author: oromagi ,

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  • oromagi
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  • oromagi
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    Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
    I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
    The evil that men do lives after them;
    The good is oft interred with their bones;
    So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
    Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
    If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
    And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
    Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
    For Brutus is an honourable man;
    So are they all, all honourable men–
    Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
    He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
    But Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And Brutus is an honourable man.
    He hath brought many captives home to Rome
    Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
    Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
    When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
    Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
    Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And Brutus is an honourable man.
    You all did see that on the Lupercal
    I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
    Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
    Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
    And, sure, he is an honourable man.
    I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
    But here I am to speak what I do know.
    You all did love him once, not without cause:
    What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
    O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
    And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
    My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
    And I must pause till it come back to me.

    -Julius Caesar  Act.III scene.ii

  • oromagi
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  • oromagi
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    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
    The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
                             But O heart! heart! heart!
                                O the bleeding drops of red,
                                   Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                      Fallen cold and dead.

    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
    For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
                             Here Captain! dear father!
                                This arm beneath your head!
                                   It is some dream that on the deck,
                                     You’ve fallen cold and dead.

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                             Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                                But I with mournful tread,
                                   Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                      Fallen cold and dead.

    -Walt Whitman

  • oromagi
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  • oromagi
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    THE PRANCING PONY, BREE. Midyear's Day, Shire Year, 1418. Dear Frodo, Bad news has reached me here. I must go off at once. You had better leave Bag End soon, and get out of the Shire before the end of July at latest. I will return as soon as I can; and I will follow you, if I find that you are gone. Leave a message for me here, if you pass through Bree. You can trust the landlord (Butterbur). You may meet a friend of mine on the Road: a Man, lean, dark, tall, by some called Strider. He knows our business and will help you. Make for Rivendell. There I hope we may meet again. If I do not come, Elrond will advise you. Yours in haste ,GANDALF. PS. Do NOT use It again, not far any reason whatever! Do not travel by night! PPS. Make sure that it is the real Strider. There are many strange men on the roads. His true name is Aragorn. "All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king." PPPS. I hope Butterbur sends this promptly. A worthy man, but his memory is like a lumber-roam: thing wanted always buried. If he forgets, I shall roast him. Fare Well!

  • oromagi
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    When you walk through a storm
    Hold your head up high
    And don't be afraid of the dark
    At the end of a storm
    There's a golden sky
    And the sweet silver song of a lark
    Walk on through the wind
    Walk on through the rain
    Though your dreams be tossed and blown
    Walk on, walk on
    With hope in your heart
    And you'll never walk alone
    You'll never walk alone
    Walk on, walk on
    With hope in your heart
    And you'll never walk alone
    You'll never walk alone

    -Rogers & Hammerstein

  • oromagi
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    YEt somme men say in many partyes of Englond that kyng Arthur is not deed /
    But had by the wylle of our lord Ihesu in to another place /
    and men say that he shal come ageyn & he shal wynne the holy crosse.
    I wyl not say that it shal be so /
    but rather I wyl say here
    in thys world he chaunged his lyf /
    but many men say that there is
    wryton vpon his tombe this vers

    Hic iacet Arthurus Rex quondam Rex que futurus


    Le Morte D'Arthur Book XXI:Capitulum vij


  • oromagi
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  • SupaDudz
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    --> @oromagi
    I have been replaced

    I love Dia de los Muertos
  • oromagi
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    --> @SupaDudz
    well then, add something to altar. 
    something in Klingon, perhaps.
  • SupaDudz
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    Boi look at my pfp
  • oromagi
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    --> @SupaDudz

    i don't know what it is but it is all skully which is def DoD.  My niece & nephew's school does a huge altar in the auditorium- last year was crazy- thousands of skulls and flowers and pictures of Frieda kahlo and mannequins and cookies and loaves of bread.
  • SupaDudz
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    It is Marco Diaz at the Blood Moon Ball, which alludes back to DoD. Such a cool holiday
  • WaterPhoenix
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    WaterPhoenix
    Huh, I actually know these poems and speeches, but rip bsh1
  • Trent0405
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    Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Bsh1

    He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored

    He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword

    His truth is marching on, His truth is marching

    Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

    Glory, glory, Hallelujah! His truth is marching on

    I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps

    They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps

    I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps

    His day is marching on

    Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

    In the beauty of the lilies, Bsh was born across the sea

    With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me

    As He died to make men civil, let us live to make men free

    While Bsh is marching on

    Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

    Glory, glory, Hallelujah! His truth is marching on!

    His truth is marching on! And on and on and on and on and on

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQhyWv-PeVE     For some reason the singer says god instead of Bsh although they can easily be mixed up. 

    R.I.P Bsh1 

  • oromagi
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    --> @Trent0405

    I didn't know what it meant that he was born
    in the beauty of the lilies, maybe bulbs that had been 
    planted around the timbers of the stable,
    or the myrrh king came after the birth, and he was
    born in the beauty.  Maybe on the longest 
    night of the winter he was somehow born
    on Easter--born risen.  I loved that he was
    born across the sea, as if born into the whole
    width of the air, between here
    and that holy place, the barn under
    the meteor.  They didn't talk about the hay,
    or the water-trough, or the blood, or the milk,
    or the manure, with its straw-seeds inside it, but sometimes
    they showed him in her arms, almost nursing,
    the light around his head like a third
    breast in the scene, and they said he was born
    with a glory in his bosom--he had his own
    bosom, as if he was his own mother
    as well as his own father.  And she wore
    blue, always unmarked, she never wore
    fleur-de-lys, and yet he was born
    in the beauty of the lilies.  This morning,  when I looked
    At a lily, just beginning to open,
    its long, slender pouch tipped 
    with soft, curling-back lips, and I could peek just 
    slightly in, and see the clasping
    interior, the cache of pollen,
    and smell the extreme sweetness, I thought they were
    shyly saying Mary's body,
    he came from the blossom of a woman, he was born
    in the beauty of her lily.

    -Sharon Olds

  • SupaDudz
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    Felix Dia de los Muerto mi amigo
  • oromagi
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  • SupaDudz
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  • oromagi
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    HAMLET
     
    To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may
     not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander,
     till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
      
    HORATIO 
    'Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
     
    HAMLET 
    No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with
    modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as
    thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried,
    Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of
     
    earth we make loam; and why of that loam, where to he
    was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?
     
    Imperious Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,
    Might stop a hole to keep the wind away.
    O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
    Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!
     
    But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.
     
     



  • oromagi
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    Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.  -James Joyce
  • Annie_ESocialBookworm
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    --> @oromagi
    If it makes you feel any better, he was online 2 days ago. 
  • TheHammer
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    Cringe.