At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
In a feast of fame and talks,Scandal flashing, raising tongue and brows.In a blast of bombing and power play,Fear and death dig more revenge.In a forgotten continent,Famine and drought devour lives.In an unfortunate eye of a rebelling weather,Crashing homes, leaving many in devastation and desperation.In a country shaking with violence,Innocent victims cry for justice and peace.In a home shaking with turmoil, Humble patient, hiding voice wants to be heard.In a tick of a second,A new breathe of life beats!To belong in this world.Constantly changing, decaying or improving?In a snap of innovation:Life goes big leap!Regression somewhere unseen,But felt in a slow, long run.
Rhythm of a Heart, Music of a Soul
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In a feast of fame and talks,Scandal flashing, raising tongue and brows.In a blast of bombing and power play,Fear and death dig more revenge.In a forgotten continent,Famine and drought devour lives.In an unfortunate eye of a rebelling weather,Crashing homes, leaving many in devastation and desperation.In a country shaking with violence,Innocent victims cry for justice and peace.In a home shaking with turmoil, Humble patient, hiding voice wants to be heard.In a tick of a second,A new breathe of life beats!To belong in this world.Constantly changing, decaying or improving?In a snap of innovation:Life goes big leap!Regression somewhere unseen,But felt in a slow, long run.
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Miss Millick wondered just what had happened to Mr. Wran. He kept making the strangest remarks when she took dictation. Just this morning he had quickly turned around and asked, "Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Millick?" And she had tittered nervously and replied, "When I was a girl there was a thing in white that used to come out of the closet in the attic bedroom when you slept there, and moan. Of course it was just my imagination. I was frightened of lots of things." And he had said, "I don't mean that traditional kind of ghost. I mean a ghost from the world today, with the soot of the factories in its face and the pounding of machinery in its soul. The kind that would haunt coal yards and slip around at night through deserted office buildings like this one. A real ghost. Not something out of books." And she hadn't known what to say. ("Smoke Ghost")
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Whoever has hatred toward someone is that hatred.