The Chicken Liberation Army: Childrens adventure story (Bellamante Productions Book 1)

Children/YA Fiction

---

La harina resbaladiza como la plata, de la patata pobre. Pero no camina, ni baila, ni canta. Si quiere tener nombre, hay que hacerle nombre con tres B o tres M blandas. Flour is clear, smooth, and weighty. She is completely womanly, as female as rubber or chalk; she recognizes a lullaby if you hum it to her; she understands all womanly things. Le alone with the world, she would feed the planet with her round breasts. She can also turn herself into a mountain of milk, a gentle mountain down which all the children tumble and tumble.

If she walked, no one would hear her cottony feet as they sank, weightily, into the earth; if she were to dance, her heavy arms would fall; if she wanted to sing, the song would lodge in her thick throat. La sal es absoluta y pura como la muerte. The salt is absolute and pure as death. The salt nailed through the hearts of good people, even the heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, keeps them from dissolving in piety. Los poetas no han sabido ni el color de la noche ni el del higo de Palestina. Deja que haga mi elogio: I bloom within myself, inwardly, enjoying a look at myself at least once a week.

Then the satin opens, generously, in a great crease of Congolese laughter. We are both an ur-ancient blue, a passionate blue that grows richly denser through its passion. The rose at rest also knows this feeling. Let my praise be sung! Una fruta guerrera ella toda cubierta de cicatrices como el pecho de la amazona. She does not know the fragility of a dangling golden pear; she settled into the ground for six weeks, feeling the earth gentle and strong. Not even battle helmets carry plumage as powerful as hers.

A warrior fruit scarred like the chest of an Amazon. Han echado en su sitio una arena pulida y ella la palpa y palpa con el pecho. La arena cruje dulcemente y resbala como un agua lenta. Ella camina desde la arenilla hacia un cuadro de hierba menuda que le es familiar como la arena, y estas dos criaturas, arena y hierba rasada, se lo ocurren dos dioses dulces. Bebe sin rumor en el charco. La mano cuerda aparta entonces a la loca. Brilla mucho la arena a cierta hora y el agua resplandece. La parada conoce el mundo, muy bien que se lo sabe. Ahora hay sobre la mesa una concha espaciosa, urna de hierro viejo, llena de silencio.

Throughout her place they have spread a polished sand; she touches it and touches it with her breast. The sand creaks sweetly and slides like slow water. These two creatures, sand and short grass, seem to her like two sweet gods. Soundlessly, she drinks from the puddle. She looks at the sky, which seems fallen in the water. The sky seems tranquil, like her. She hears the wind in the jasmine. Some yellow leaves fall; they touch her back, and something cool enters her, under her shell. Then she draws back. An old hand brings her food; another new one hits her on the shell with pebbles.

The intelligent hand takes the foolish one away. The sand shines intensely at a certain time, and the water glitters. Then the ground is the same color as she is, and so she falls asleep. The still one knows the world, knows it very well. All the other things do something; the basin drips, and the grass rises.

The Chicken Liberation Army by Melanie Ifield

In her, it seems, nothing changes. At last she has died. For a whole day no one noticed anything; she only seemed slower. Her head entered her little casket; her feet went into her case. The sand realized she had shrunk a little more. They let her dry out in the air. Later they emptied her.

Bellamante Productions

La conciencia de la vida en un momento. Todos los recuerdos en torno de un pan. El pensamiento de la vida se banaliza desde el momento en que no se mezcla al de la muerte. Wonder of childhood, magical feeling of raw materials and elements: Moments of pure vision, pure hearing, pure touch. Consciousness of life at one moment. All the memories revolve around bread. The pagan paid attention to both. Este desnivel tiene asustadas a sus propias patas traseras. Piensan que hay dos jirafas, una parienta de los asnos y que tiene la altura que quiso la voluntad de Dios y la otra embrujada, que sube a cuarta por noche.

Se anda ofreciendo para las grandes comisiones, una ante el elefante que debe dar su sombra a un campo de cultivo que se abrasa, otra ante el molino que no deja dormir a una mancha de musgo. The zebra advises her to change the shape of her body, even though that might break her back. Her asymmetry frightens even her own hind legs. The trees, in their noble indolence, do not li their leaves. She passes through, tearing open great passageways, and she leaves the forest spread open in naves like a cathedral. Only once, a tribe of Bedouins used her to hold up the top of their shabby tent when its pole was broken.

On her back she carries a full load of wool. She walks on restlessly, watching with eyes full of strangeness. The wool merchant has forgotten to come to fetch her, and she is ready. There is nothing in this world more burdened than she is: When something gets lost in the park, whom should you look for but her, the tall one with the huge burden, which seems to carry so many things hidden in it? But look into her eyes, her astonished eyes that know nothing about anything. They ask only why she has been sent on such a long journey, and why no one comes for her.

The source of her tragedy is a high Altiplano plateau: They brought her down from the high plateau, they placed her on this absurd horizon, and when she cranes her neck backward, it is to look for the older alpaca, for the one who sheds her burdens on high, where they gleam for her. What have we done, you and I, I ask the alpaca, to our mountain chain, our Andes?

Es bastante esclavitud hacer el sol. As for me, on the other hand, they hardly even reach my feet. This turning toward the East and toward the sunset, constantly attending to his position, tires my neck, which is not so limber. And they, the little grasses, they continue to sing down there: I keep quiet, but as for me, I know for certain it is he, the one up above. El cristal de nuestras ventanas, donde la noche apoya sus manos como una gran hiedra, para ser vista y que no la olvidemos completamente.

Los obreros de los cristales recompensados por su mano, que anduvo en el fuego como la salamandra enderezando y acostando crisoles. The glass that gathers and relinquishes forms: The glass without veins for blood or joints like wrists; the unanimous glass: The glass that helped water in its desire to remain, to lie in the hollow of the hand without treachery, to be loyal to the eye that watches and loved it, like a loyal woman: The glass of my desire: The glass, fresh as a temple is always fresh, preserved from old age since its earliest day, with its enduring childhood, with no pretty growth and no ugly growth.

The glass that always emerges as something of a surprise, something unexpected, from the hands of the workers, who always feel a bit abashed that it comes out resembling the soul, as it leaves their black and knotted hands. The workers who made glass all their lives arrived in heaven and found that it resembled what they had made on earth: Without knowing it, they had been trapped in a glass reproduced with their faces, their shoulders, their feet, and they saw their second shoulders and their feet freed from corruption. They still experience the shock of learning that they too were made of glass material as they moved through their workshop casting hard shadows against the walls.

The metalworkers came to a violent copper heaven; they are happy in their violent joy. The woodworkers came to a heaven that smelled of maritime pines, a heaven echoless, still, and dry as old age. The glassworkers in their heaven watch the others: Entonces los saca todos yo la he visto y juega con ellos como una solterona senil, a la luz vaga de las estrellas. La arena de fuente y pies rotos, que no siente ninguna gana de juntarlos.

Where are my happy steps? And the slow ones, and the fast ones, where? The sand, unfaithful because pure, as the wind is unfaithful and the snow and the water too. The sterile sand that said to the grass: The sand is what gives them the small bed-warmth they leave behind, the mysterious sand that no one knows how to describe.

In sand, the poor received that portion of happiness that others receive in containers of metal, of stone. The dry sand has no imagination, for it has no desire to lie. The sea, the great deceiver, lies beside her, and the sand watches with distaste its game of mirrors and foam. The sand knows no other shapes than the crease of a great smile, and with a smile like that the sand laughs at all things that are not sand. The sand of fountains and of broken feet, which feels no impulse to put them together again.

La arena de espalda suave como el pez, de espalda ofrecida de foca, de femenina espalda. Sand of loyal mirrors, where the love of the seagulls lets their quick angles fall, and where the clouds abandon their passion for the grandiloquent gesture. The sand that knew Christ, sand in which He le no dark scars.

Product description

The sand of the dunes, which begins to make mounds to rise toward the clouds and broad thrones of queens who never arrive there, about whom the clouds, those great obtuse fools, laugh. Maestro, hazme perdurable el fervor y pasajero el desencanto. Le envuelva la llamarada de mi entusiasmo su atrio pobre, su sala desnuda.

Teacher, make my eagerness long-lasting and my disappointment brief. Let me not be hurt by the incomprehension or saddened by the forgetfulness of the girls I have taught. Grant that I may succeed in shaping one of my girls to be my perfect poem, and let me leave You my deepest melody inside her, to sing when my own lips no longer sing. Show me that Your Gospel can be possible in my time, so that I may not falter in my daily and hourly struggle on its behalf. Instill in my democratic school that radiance that You shone on the barefoot little children who surrounded You.

Make me strong, even in my weakness as a woman, and as a poor woman; make me disdain all impure power and all pressure that is not Your ardent will upon my life. Be with me, Friend, uphold me! O en I will have only You by my side. When my convictions become purer and my truth more burning, the worldly will forsake me, but You will press me then to Your heart, which knew so much loneliness and abandonment. I will not seek the sweetness of approval except in Your face. Each morning when I enter my school, let my vision rise above the hurt in my own heart. Let me not bring to my desk my own petty material concerns, my paltry immediate sorrows.

Lighten my hand in punishment, and let my caresses be ever more gentle. May I reprimand in sorrow, so that I know I have given correction lovingly! Let me make my brick schoolhouse into a temple of the spirit. Let the radiance of my enthusiasm encircle the humble playground and the bare classroom. Sweet the passing day because of that silk, sweet the sustenance, sweet the ancient sadness, at least for the few hours it slips between my hands.

My belly, now, is as noble as my heart. Pero no importa si es tostado, con ese rico color de las gredas rojas que aman los alfareros, y si sus cabellos lisos tienen la simplicidad de mi vida entera. What Will He Be Like? What will he be like? I gazed for a long time at the petals of a rose, and I touched them delightedly: I would want that so ness for his cheeks.

And I played in a tangle of brambles, because I would want his hair to be like that, dark and curling. But, above all, I want that face to share the sweetness he has in his face, and that voice to share the timbre of his voice when he speaks to me: As if I were a cluster of blue-tinged grapes, the light passed through me for the sweetness I might yield. This that is making itself in the depths of me, drop by drop, from my veins: For this I prayed, the name of God passing through my human clay, with which it would be made. Mi voz es suave, como por una sordina de amor, y es que temo despertarlo.

Hurgo con miedo de ternura en las yerbas donde anidan codornices. Y voy por el campo silenciosa, cautelosamente. The Sweetness Because of the sleeping child I carry, my footstep has turned cautious. And my whole heart is religious, since it carries this mystery. In the faces I see I search for signs of an inner pain, so that others might see and understand why my cheek has turned pale. In tender fear, I pick my way through the grasses where the quails nest.

And I pass through the quiet countryside, heedfully. I believe that the trees and material things hold sleeping children, over whom they keep watch. La hermana Hoy he visto una mujer abriendo un surco.

The Sister Today I watched a woman plow a furrow. Her hips are swollen, like mine, by love, and her work made her bend toward the ground. I put my arm around her waist; I brought her home with me. And if my breast is not plentiful enough, my child will reach his lips toward hers, which is rich. Siento crecer mi pecho, subir como el agua en un ancho estanque, calladamente. Y su esponjadura echa sombra como de promesa sobre mi vientre. The Prayer But no! Would God let the buds of my breasts dry up, when He Himself widened my waist? I feel my breasts grow, swelling like water in a wide pool, silently.

And their so ness casts a shadow like a promise across my belly. Who in all the valley would be poorer than I, if my breasts never did moisten?

My child will come thirstily, searching for it. Sensitiva Ya no juego en las praderas y temo columpiarme con las mozas. Soy como la rama con fruto. I am like a branch full of fruit. If even one glance from my master were harsh toward me tonight, I might die. My weeping and my laughter will begin in your face, my child! La quietud Ya no puedo ir por los caminos: Pongo rosas sobre mi vientre, digo sobre el que duerme estrofas eternas. Recojo en el corredor hora tras hora el sol acre. Recibo en el rostro el viento de los pinares. La luz y los vientos coloreen y laven mi sangre.

I lay roses across my belly, I recite ageless poems above the sleeper. On the verandah, hour a er hour, I take in the tang of the sun. I want to distill, as the fruit does, honey, in my core. May I feel the wind from the pine groves across my face. The light and the breezes ripen and clean my blood.

To cleanse it even more, I feel no hatred, I make no complaint: I love, only that! No tiene agujillas de cardo ni espinas de zarza. Little White Clothes I knit the little slippers, I cut so diapers: I want to make everything with my own hands. He will come from my insides; he will recognize my scent. It has no thistle needles or blackberry thorns in it. He sees them through my eyes, and he smiles, happy, sensing in advance how very so. La Tierra tiene la actitud de una mujer con un hijo en los brazos con sus criaturas en los anchos brazos. Voy conociendo el sentido maternal de las cosas.

Recuerdo ahora una quebrada del valle. The Earth has the bearing of a woman with a child in her arms—with her creatures in her broad arms. The mountain that watches me: Now I remember a ravine in the valley. Through its deep bed ran a singing current, wholly hidden by the weedy terrain. Al esposo Esposo, no me estreches. Lo hiciste subir del fondo de mi ser como un lirio de aguas.

No remuevas ansiosamente mi sangre; no agites mi aliento. You made him rise from the depths of my being like a water lily. Leave me be, like water at rest. Love me, love me now a little more! I —so small— will send a copy of you into the streets. Be sweeter than ever with me. Now I am only a veil!

Product details

My whole body is a veil across a sleeping child! Tremblingly, she felt my belly, and she gently uncovered my breast. At the touch of her hand it seemed to me my insides were half opening with the gentleness of leaves, and a milky wave was rising through my breast. Dame tu ciencia de amor, ahora, madre. Mother, tell me everything you learned from your old pains. Tell me about childbirth, how his little body will come out, webbed in the threads of my womb. Impart what you know about love to me, now, Mother. How will I wash his little head, in the days to come? And how will I wrap him without hurting him?

Teach me, Mother, the lullaby you rocked me with. Better than other songs, that one will soothe him to sleep. El amanecer Toda la noche he padecido, toda la noche se ha estremecido mi carne por entregar su don. Let him be born, and let my cry of pain rise in the dawn, woven with the song of birds! La sagrada ley Dicen que la vida ha menguado en mi cuerpo, que mis venas se vertieron como las lagares: Y yo misma me respondo: Me mire la Tierra con este hijo en los brazos, y me bendiga, pues ya estoy fecunda y sagrada, como las palmas y los surcos.

My crying has called to him, maybe; maybe he wants to come out to see my face full of tears. Why Did You Come? Why did you come? No one will love you, although you are beautiful, my child. Though you smile happily, like the other children, like the youngest of my little brothers, no one will kiss you but me, my child. Why did you come, if the one who brought you hated you when he felt you in my belly? You came for me; for me because I was alone, alone even when he held me close in his arms, my child! Una tarde, paseando por una calle miserable de Temuco, vi a una mujer del pueblo, sentada a la puerta de su rancho.

Hasta me insinuaron que los eliminase de un libro. One a ernoon, while I was walking down a poor street in Temuco, I saw a village woman sitting in the doorway of her shack. At that moment I felt all the solidarity of my sex, the vast compassion of women for women, and it set me to thinking: Some of those women who feel they have to shut their eyes to cruel but fatal reality in order to maintain their own purity have aimed small-minded criticism at these poems, which saddened me, for their sakes.

They even intimated that I should drop the poems from the book. In this self-involved work, work that feels diminished to me because of that self-involvement, it may very well be that this human prose is the only part in which the fullness of Life sings. Should I drop them? Here they stay, dedicated to those women who can see that the sanctity of life begins with motherhood, which is, accordingly, sacred.

I want them to feel the tenderness with which a woman who cares for the children of others looks upon the mothers of all the children of the world! Yo que todo lo he perdido—ahora tiemblo hasta al dormir. I who have lost everything—hesitate now to fall asleep. Yo no tengo soledad Es la noche desamparo—de las sierras hasta el mar. Es el cielo desamparo—pues la luna cae al mar.

Es el mundo desamparo. The sky, forsaken—for the moon falls into the sea. Meciendo El mar sus millares de olas—mece divino. El viento errabundo en la noche—mece los trigos. Dios Padre sus miles de mundos—mece sin ruido. Rocking The sea is rocking—its millions of waves, divinely. God the Father is rocking—His thousands of worlds, soundlessly. Este verde campo es tuyo. Este valle es todo tuyo. This valley is all yours—Whom else could it belong to? And the milk that runs—through the udders in the barn—and the harvest bundle of the grain—Whom else would it belong to? No soy ciego como me llamas.

Y amo; tampoco soy muerto. The Sacred Dust I have eyes, I have vision; eyes and visions spread throughout me by visions of you, which death shattered. Through all of them, I see you. And I am not blind, as you call me. And I do love; nor am I dead. The longing on their lips makes me moan.

Here I am; gather me up with your hand. Watch over me; carry me. I carried you like that. I am your furrow. Look at me and remember my lips! Why do you pass along, breaking me open? Y ahora, si haces una Tanagra con nosotros, ponnos todo en la frente, o todo en el seno. His clay and the clay of my own bones, at last joined together!

With every atom of my body I have kissed him, with every atom I held him close. A thousand weddings for our two bodies! To mix us well together, they dissolved us. Like the roar of swarming bees, the buzz of our love in ferment! And now, if you make a Tanagra vase of us, set us all on the upper brow, or all in the chest. To the Children A er many years, when I am a little mound of silent dust, play with me, with the clay of my heart and of my bones.

If they make me a brick in a prison, I will blush with shame to hear a man sobbing. I would rather be the dust you play with in the paths of the countryside. I have been yours. Destroy me, for I made you. Step on me, because I did not give you all truth and all beauty. When you make any image with me, shatter it instantly: The Enemy I dreamed that I was already earth, that I was a meter of dark earth at the side of a road. When the carts loaded with hay passed by at dusk, the scent they le in the air made me tremble to remember the land where I was born; later, when the group of harvesters passed by, it was evoked again.

At the calling of the twilight bells, my soul remembered God, under its blind dust. But now I am darkened dust, and I love even the thistles that grow above me and the wheels of the carts that bruise me as they pass. No acid, no man-made chemical, could have separated us. It was a simple vessel, with no decoration, no etching, nothing to separate us. And if the very soul of Cain could have been dipped in that vessel, that soul would have risen from it like a honeycomb, dripping with honey.

The Amphoras You have already found the red and black silted clay by the river. It will not be troubled by elegance, but will be the Amphora of Health. Make the amphora of the sensualist. Make the amphora of the mournful. Make it simple as a tear, no frieze, no colored decoration, because the owner will not look at its beauty. Make the amphora of the wretched: It will be the Amphora of Protest. They will put neither wine nor water in it. That will be the Amphora of Desolation. And that empty bosom will disturb anyone who looks at it, more than if it were brimming with blood.

No eres humilde, y rehusas bajar como otros vasos a las cisternas, a llenarte de agua impura. Nor do you open to nourish yourself with little tendernesses, as do some of my amphoras, which accept the slow drops the night pours into them and live from that brief freshness.

Chronicles of Novarmere: Dark Wizard Quartet – Completed!

And you are not red, but white with thirst, because the most intense ardor has that terrible whiteness. El amor los tajea de ardor, y no ven que son hermanos de mis gredas abiertas. Miden desde su quietud meditativa el contorno de todas las cosas, y su brevedad no la conocen, de verse engrandecidos en su sombra. They tremble in the hands of Destiny, and they do not believe that they waver this way because they are vessels.

Love carves the ardor out of them, and they do not see that in this way they are like my open clay. They hate their little wall. They hate the little feet of their base, which hardly li s them from the dust to receive a bit of daylight. And the breath of God, which dropped on them while He was creating them, le them in an even greater anguish, faintly remembering a great elegance and sweetness. The vessel for Falerno wine detests the acrid smell of the winepress. The vessel for perfumed oil hates its cloying thickness and envies the lightness of the vessel for clear water.

They are the most anguished of all. The Four-Petaled Flower My soul was once a great tree, on which a million fruits ripened. Later my soul was a shrub, a gnarled shrub with few branches, but it could still produce scented resin. One is called Beauty, and another Love, and they are close together; another is called Sorrow, and the last one Mercy.

You who knew me when I was a great tree and who come looking for me so late, at twilight, perhaps you pass by without recognizing me. If I see ambition in your eyes, I will let you go on toward the others, who are great trees reddened with fruit. Estoy llorando Me has dicho que me amas, y estoy llorando. Fallen to earth, I will cry until my soul understands.

My senses, my face, my heart have heard: As the divine a ernoon wanes, I will head home hesitantly, leaning on the tree trunks along the road. Dios es este reposo de tu larga mirada en mi mirada, este comprenderse, sin el ruido intruso de las palabras. Dios es esta entrega ardiente y pura. Y vuelve otra vez al suspiro. Y es esta certidumbre divina de que la muerte es mentira. God Talk to me now about God, and I will understand you. God is this tranquillity of your long gaze in my gaze, this understanding one another without the intrusive noise of words.

God is this surrender, passionate and pure. Like us, He is loving in the morning, at midday, and at night, and it seems to Him, as it seems to us, that He is only just beginning to love. He needs no other song than His love itself, and He sings it from sighing through to sobbing. And He returns again to the sigh. And this divine certainty that death is a lie. Yes, now I understand God. El mundo —No se aman, dijeron, porque no se buscan. Ellos, que se revuelcan en la voluptuosidad sin lograr unirse, no saben que por una mirada somos esposos! Your job is far from mine, and my home is not near you.

Nevertheless, as I do my work, I feel as if I were wrapping you in a weave of so est wool, and you feel, way over there, that my gaze is falling on your bowed head. And your heart cracks open with sweetness! The day gone, we will meet for a few moments, but the sweet wound of love will sustain us till another twilight. Those who wallow in voluptuousness without achieving a real oneness: Y eras puro, como la escarcha que amanece dormida en los cristales.

They Were Talking about You. They were talking about you, bloodying you, with lots of words. Why does human language exhaust itself so uselessly? And you were pure as the frost at dawn sleeping on the windowpanes. They were talking about you to me, praising you with lots of words. Why is human generosity exhausted so uselessly? I kept silent, and praise rose up from deep inside me, bright as mists rising from the sea.

They stopped mentioning your name the other day and talked about others, with a warm respectfulness. The strange names dropped inert before me, fading. And your name, which no one mentioned, was as present as the spring that covered the valley, though no one would be singing it at that luminous hour. Va bajando el sol.

Parece que te hundieras en la tierra pesada. Vienes cantando como las vertientes bajan al valle. The sun is setting. Over the plain the night settles in, and you come walking to meet me, naturally, as the night falls. Hurry, I want to see the twilight across your face! How slowly you approach! You come near singing like the slopes that descend into the valley. I hear you already. The fading day wants to pass away across our two faces together. Soy fea sin ti, como las cosas desarraigadas de su sitio: Contigo soy natural y bella, cual el musgo en el tronco.

Hide me as the tree trunk conceals its resin, that I may perfume you in the shadow like a drop of amber-gum, that it may smooth you and the others may never know where your sweetness comes from. I am ugly without you, like things out of place: With you, I am natural and lovely, like the moss on the tree trunk. Why am I not small, like an almond in its closed shell? Make me a drop of your blood, and I will rise to your cheek, I will be in it like the living drop in the leaf on the vine. Sigue por el sendero acostumbrado, llega a las alamedas de oro, sigue por las altas alamedas de oro hasta la sierra amoratada.

The Shadow Leave for the countryside at dusk, and leave me your footprints in the grass, for I am coming behind you. Go down the usual path, to the golden poplars, go through the golden groves to the dark purple mountains. Walk giving yourself over to things, touching the trunks of trees, so that when I pass they may return your caress to me. Look at yourself in the clear pools, and let the pools hold the image of your face for me for a moment, till I pass.

Si viene la muerte Si te ves herido, no temas llamarme. No quiero que ninguno, ni Dios, te enjugue en las sienes el sudor ni te acomode la almohada bajo la cabeza. Estoy guardando mi cuerpo para resguardar de la lluvia y las nieves tu huesa, cuando ya duermas. No, call me wherever you are, even if it be a bed of shame. I am saving my body to shield your grave from the rain and the snow when you sleep at last. Y la damos con un temblor incontenible, como el tuyo delante de un seno desnudo. Beauty A song is the wound of love that things opened in us. But our disquiet is continuous; we feel the thrust of all the beauty of the world, because the starry night was for us a love as sharp as a carnal love.

Song A woman is singing in the valley. The falling shadow erases her, but her song li s her over the countryside. Her heart is shattered, like her jug that broke this a ernoon on the stones in the streambed, but she keeps on singing. In a modulation, her voice moistens with blood. In the countryside, the other voices are already silent, in their daily death, and just a moment ago the song of the last straggling bird fell silent. And her deathless heart, her heart alive with pain, burning with pain, gathers the silencing voices into her voice, keen now, but always sweet.

Does she sing for a husband who watches her quietly in the dusk, or for a child who sweetens to her song? Or perhaps she sings for her own heart, more helpless than a child alone at nightfall. The coming night becomes a mother because of the song that goes out to greet it; the stars are opening with human sweetness: From the throat of the woman who keeps on singing, the day exhales and rises, ennobled, toward the stars! Las otras se apresuraron, y se han ido con el amor y el placer.

Tiene una lumbre que apacigua. The Dream God said to me: I have le you the lamp of the Dream, and you will live by its gentle brightness. Your lamp has a soothing radiance. But, in truth, you will be the merciful one when with your gaze, living among them, you ease their hearts. No hay arte ateo. Decalogue of the Artist I. There is no atheistic art. Beauty should not be a pretext for lewdness or vanity, but a spiritual exercise. You shall issue each creation with humility, for it was inferior to your dream, and inferior to that marvelous dream of God that is Nature.

Duro, acre, sumo, el abrazo de la muerte. Why should You have made me fruitful, if I must be emptied and le like the crushed sugarcanes?

The Chicken Liberation Army

Why should You spill the light across my forehead and my heart every morning, if You will not come to pick me, as one picks the dark grapes that sweeten in the sun, in the middle of autumn? It is Your love, Your aweful love, oh, God! It leaves the bones broken and wasted, the face bleached with fear, the tongue weak! Out of love, out of an abundance of love, I described what I will never see. People came to question me about You. Seeing that they were more anxious than a thirsty man who asks about the river, I spoke to them about You, without ever having experienced the full joy of You, yet.

You, my Lord, will forgive me that. It was their desire, as it was mine, to show You forth clearly and purely, like the petals of the white lily. On the path across the desert, the anxiety of the Bedouins distinctly makes out mirages in the distance. The traveler does not arrive, but in their zeal, our eyes picture him each moment, there in the palest horizon. But that does not matter, my Lord: In one day of griefs, I could mature completely. Therefore I will sing my smallness in my song, so that You might turn Your countenance toward me if You miss me, my rapturous Harvester!

But attending as I do to Your subtlest motions, I know such tenderness that it strengthens my trust in You! And I have smiled, dying of happiness, saying to myself: So, someday, He will gather me, like the trembling droplet, before I drop into the dust. Gather me, then, gather me soon! I have stretched no roots into this human earth. With one simple movement of Your lips, You sip me up; with one imperceptible sign of approval, You gather me in.

Amalos, porque no recuerdan a Dios, ni nos evocan la cara amada. Ten piedad de ellos que buscan terriblemente, con una tremenda ansia, la belleza que no trajeron. He tolerates them; He lets them cross the dewy moss. Inside whatever is ugly, matter is weeping; I have heard its cry. Look at the pain, and love it. Love the spider and the beetle because of their pain, because, unlike the rose, they have no expression of happiness. Love them because they are a misguided longing for beauty, an unheard desire for perfection. They are like one of your days, wasted and miserable despite yourself.

Love them because they do not recall God nor evoke for us that beloved face.

The bulky spider in its light web dreams of an ideal world, and the beetle imagines the dew across its black back is an evanescent splendor. La venda Toda la belleza de la Tierra puede ser venda para tu herida. Toda la belleza es misericordia de Dios. El que te alarga la espina en una mano temblorosa, te ofrece en la otra un motivo para la sonrisa. No digas que es un juego cruel. The Bandage All the beauty of the Earth can be a bandage for your wound.

Experience them like this. Experience the sky like this, like a bandage. The one who hurt you has gone, leaving you gauzy threads for the bandage all along the road. Each morning when you open your shutters, feel the white dawn rising over the mountains as a marvelous bandage, already prepared against the hardships of the day.

A un sembrador Siembra sin mirar la tierra donde cae el grano. Di tu palabra, y sigue tranquilo, sin volver el rostro. Habla a tus hermanos en la penumbra de la tarde, para que se borre tu rostro, y vela tu voz hasta que se confunda con cualquier otra voz. Hazte olvidar, hazte olvidar. Es un misterio al que asiste Dios y tu alma. Ha derramado sus criaturas y la belleza de las cosas por valles y colinas, calladamente, con menos rumor del que tiene la hierba al crecer.

El calla, calla siempre. To a Sower He sows without looking where the seeds fall on the earth. Your glance, inviting them to respond, will seem to them like a solicitation to praise you, and though they might agree with the truth of what you say, they will deny it out of pride. When they see that you have moved away, they will harvest what you sowed; maybe they will embrace it with tenderness and will take it into their hearts. Talk with your brothers in the dim light of evening, so that your face is erased, and obscure your voice till it could be taken for any other voice.

Make yourself forget, make yourself forget. Be like the father who forgives his enemy if he surprises him embracing his child. In your marvelous dream of redemption, let yourself be kissed. Observe this in silence, and smile. It is a mystery, assisting both God and your own soul. God contains also this necessary silence, because He is Self-contained.

He has spread out His creatures and the loveliness of things over the valleys and the hills, quietly, with even less noise than the grass makes as it grows. Those who love the things of the earth come and look at them, touch them, and are entranced by them, bending their cheeks over the countenance of things. And they will never say His name! He is silent, always silent. The harp is not still for a single moment, nor is the hand of the impassioned Player. From sunup to sundown, God emanates melodies to His creatures. The hand of the Player pauses over them.

The Musician hears the souls He made, in discouragement or in eagerness. When He passes from the barren to the beautiful, He smiles, or a tear drops on the strings. And the harp never goes silent, and the Player never tires, nor do the heavens tire of listening. The man who, sweating, opens the soil does not realize that the God who sometimes withdraws is touching him inwardly; the mother who delivers the child also does not realize that his cry wounds the blue sky, and that in that moment his string is drenched in blood.

La tierra se extiende, verde, en un ancho brazo en torno tuyo, y el cielo existe sobre tu frente. Echas de menos un hombre que camina por el paisaje. Una nube pasa sobre tu rostro, larga, suave, viva. La nube es su abrazo en torno de tu cuello, y no te oprime, no te turba. Es su beso sereno. The Illusion Nothing has been taken from you!

What you are missing is a man who walks through the landscape. Join yourself with its silhouette. Nothing has been taken from you! A cloud passes above your face, long, so , alive. Now a tear slides down your face. His intonation ran through my trunk like a thread of honey. They all drank it! Where is He now?

All of our leaves have turned pale. Yo esperaba que asomara tu rostro entre las ramas. Y sobre la calavera de Judas, los labios quedaron, perduraron sin caer, entreabiertos, prolongando el beso. And Jesus said to him: You could have scored me with your sword, to mark me. My blood was ready, like a goblet, for your lips; my heart did not resist death. I was waiting for your face to appear among the branches.

His mother laid a stone on them to try to close them; the worm chewed through them to shred them; the rain soaked them through in vain to make them rot. They keep on kissing, even under the ground! No me humilla, como la llamarada del sol, y tiene un mirar humanizado de pura suavidad, de pura dulcedumbre. Arde en medio de mi cuarto: Para la tristeza, tiene un cristal violeta, y hace a las cosas padecer conmigo. Ella es, pues, la Perfecta. Desde afuera no se adivina, y mis enemigos que pasan me creen sola. Basta lo que alumbra su halo de resplandor.

The Lamp Blessed be my lamp! For sadness, it has a violet glass, which makes everything seem sympathetic. It is alive from so many nights of touching my heart. It still keeps the so heat of my most intimate pains, which no longer burns, and in order to continue has made itself very so. Read aloud to the whole family or delight in older children discovering a love of reading for themselves by getting your copy today! Kindle Edition , pages. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about The Chicken Liberation Army , please sign up.

Be the first to ask a question about The Chicken Liberation Army. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Jun 06, Kathleen rated it it was ok. I received a free review copy of this book. The cover art is much too dark — it appears to be nothing more than a boring section of brick wall and the edge of a doorframe. Either brighten it up, or maybe just use some clipart of a chicken if you want a mostly-black cover? The language is either British or Australian Englis I received a free review copy of this book.

The language is either British or Australian English — not a complaint, just an observation. You should be using double quotation marks throughout. Single quotation marks are ONLY used for a quotation within a quotation. I was annoyed by quite a number of things. As far as I can tell, these kids are years old; why would they honestly expect a business to consider hiring them? The whole story strikes me as kind of ridiculous; as soon as anyone investigates the chicken farm, the jig is up. This reads like a second book, a continuation of a story where the characters have all already been introduced.

Maybe righteous indignation is easy for someone her age, but it burns you out pretty quickly. I want to talk some sense into her, or make her go haring off alone to accomplish her grand plans, to see how she fares without friends to bully into doing her bidding. I received this book from goodreads. This book is enjoyable enough, and Bella is a very likeable heroine. I loved the way her relationship with her brother is depicted. The story made me recall the Famous Five series of Enid Blyton which was a staple of my childhood.

The book is well written and appropriate to its age group. I hesitated before giving my star rating, but couldn't quite justify a higher mark. I received this book from Goodreads Giveaway. Bella and her friends decide to investigate the abuse of chickens. The children come up with a plan to save the chickens. This book is an fast paced and easy read for children and low-level readers. Cecilia Dunbar Hernandez rated it it was amazing Oct 11, Melanie Drake rated it really liked it Oct 10, Peter rated it liked it Aug 08, Danielle Irvin rated it it was amazing Nov 25, William added it Jul 18, Jeanette marked it as to-read Sep 09, Nicola Fantom marked it as to-read Sep 09, Betty marked it as to-read Sep 09, Frederick Rotzien marked it as to-read Sep 09, Stephanie marked it as to-read Sep 09, Jennifer Carroll marked it as to-read Sep 09, Julia Conway marked it as to-read Sep 09, Mia Redgrave marked it as to-read Sep 09, Debbie Kennedy marked it as to-read Sep 09, Rachel Hall marked it as to-read Sep 09,

• Autistic Songs
• So ist meine Welt (German Edition)
• Knock Knock! Whos there? 500 Funny Knock Knock Jokes: Another Joke Book From
• Animals Alive!: An Ecologoical Guide to Animal Activities
• Forest Tales
• Ecumenical Christian Dialogues and the Catechism of the Catholic Church, The