land

To anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother. It's the only thing that lasts, that's worth working for, for fighting for...

The hardest part of being a Canadian kid is having to color in Nunavut with a crayon in school, hell on earth.

You were placed there by God for a reason, which is to possess the land for the glory of the KING!

If we keep seeking, we shall find the sacred land.

Do not say the land ahead does not exist, simply because you cannot see it.

Communication land lines are going to be around for a long time, the internet runs on them, as do the wireless cell phone towers.

The eyes of such a nation (living godly) shall view a land that stretches afar. Talking about global influence, authority, dignity and respect.

When God speaks about equity, that choice of word, makes us understand that God is not referring to the leaders of the land or the elite this time around. He is actually talking about how ordinary citizens of the land relate to each other in fairness and impartiality

There is honey in this land sweeter than any I know of, and I have cut cane in places where the dirt itself tasted like sugar, so that's saying a heap.

I seen hundreds of men come by on the road an_ on the ranches, with their bindles on their back an_ that same damn thing in their heads . . . every damn one of __m__ got a little piece of land in his head. An_ never a God damn one of __m ever gets it. Just like heaven. Ever__ody wants a little piece of lan_. I read plenty of books out here. Nobody never gets to heaven, and nobody gets no land.

Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren__ looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places.

It doesn__ take a farm to invoke the iron taste of leaving in your mouth. Anyone who loves a small plot of ground _ a city garden, a vacant lot with some guerilla beds, a balcony of pots _ understands the almost physical hurt of parting from it, even for a minor stint. I hurt every day I wake up in our city bed, wondering how the light will be changing over the front field or across the pond, whether the moose will be in the willow by the cabin again, if the wren has fledged her young ones yet and we__l return to find the box untended. I can feel where the farm is at any point in my day, not out of some arcane sixth sense developed from years of summer nights out there with the coyotes under the stars, but because of the bond between that earth and this body. Some grounds we choose; some are our instinctive homes.

When you are on the air, there is no land you need to call home.

How can you expect people never to hurt you? That is not possible, not even in disney land.

The practices we now call conservation are, to a large extent, local alleviations of biotic pain. They are necessary, but they must not be confused with cures. The art of land doctoring is being practiced with vigor, but the science of land health is yet to be born.

Atheism is the philosophical equivalent of a fish denying the existence of land because he lacks the means to experience it.

Men are by nature wanderers...Every people has moved from somewhere, and had to learn the ways of the land from the people who were there before.

In this landI have made myself sick with silenceIn this landI have wandered, lostIn this landI hunkered down to seeWhat will become of me.In this landI held myself tightSo as not to scream.-But I did scream, so loudThat this land howled back at meAs hideouslyAs it builds its houses.In this landI have been sownOnly my head sticksDefiant, out of the earthBut one day it too will be mownMaking me, finallyOf this land.-Charlie's poem