Curitiba Brown Spiders 14 x 12 Predadores04/05/2013 - Almirante TamandareJogo valido pelo Campeonato Paranaense de Futebol Americano- mais informacoes em http://brownspiders.org/ -:: clique na miniatura para abrir a galeria :: O CorpoCaido estava Linhas simetricasperfeito corpolavado a sanguecolica homofobicadentro de tiLacre desfeitocarneimperfeito diatua horainvade o processolento da mortePor espacos em branco de tua mente insanaque te devora por dentroface obscura humanaveneno lentohipocrisia mundanadesejo de vinganca de um inocenteHomo sapiensHomo fobicoHomo sexyImperfeitoDesfaz-se deste odioa toamaldade ingratados que nao tem cerebroe que a qualquer precomata, celebree impune vagapelos esgotos da propria alma. At the train stationthe beggar is therehe has no one nationhe just live upstairsHe hopes thirstysmall coins for honor Some give, some notand even feels sorry In corner, oppressedhe is in punishmenthe daydreams compressedliving his burden A lost man, appearedand looked for some placethe beggar can t talkhe doesn t any facehe is not the counterof any informationhe needs just the coinfrom your compassionAlso speaks EnglishAnd asks for some moneyfor the turist, Polish coming from abroadand returns to the requesthe wants a handoutyour dog: your friendand the bag: his house.Tatiana Bessa Stanzas On The Death Of Lord Byron - Poem by Elizabeth Barrett BrowningHe was, and is not! Graecia's trembling shore,Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tellThat Harold's pilgrimage at last is o'erMute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell,That erst was wont in noblest strains to swellHush'd the proud shouts that rode Aegaea's wave!For lo! the great Deliv'rer breathes farewell!Gives to the world his mem'ry and a graveExpiring in the land he only lived to save!Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o'er thy widow'd brow,For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;And in thy new-form'd beauty, desolate, throwThe fresh-cull'd flowers on his sepulchral shrine.Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine,In consecrated urn lamented be!That generous heart where genius thrill'd divine,Hath spent its last most glorious throb for theeThen sank amid the storm that made thy children free!Britannia's Poet! Graecia's hero, sleeps!And Freedom, bending o'er the breathless clay,Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps!For us, a night hath clouded o'er our day,And hush'd the lips that breath'd our fairest lay.Alas! and must the British lyre resoundA requiem, while the spirit wings awayOf him who on its strings such music found,And taught its startling chords to give so sweet a sound!The theme grows sadder but my soul shall findA language in those tears! No more no more!Soon, 'midst the shriekings of the tossing wind,The 'dark blue depths' he sang of, shall have boreOur all of Byron to his native shore!His grave is thick with voices to the earMurm'ring an awful tale of greatness o'er;But Memory strives with Death, and lingering near,Shall consecrate the dust of Harold's lonely bier! Elizabeth Barrett Browning Love - Poem by Elizabeth Barrett BrowningWe cannot live, except thus mutuallyWe alternate, aware or unaware,The reflex act of life: and when we bearOur virtue onward most impulsively,Most full of invocation, and to beMost instantly compellant, certes, thereWe live most life, whoever breathes most airAnd counts his dying years by sun and sea.But when a soul, by choice and conscience,