Translate pro series cradles
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What's left for a daughter to touch- your namestone With too much laughter, or anger, or tears,Īdmitting as i do no traffics with angels.
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To chosse the words of my singing, though Into the maw of earth beside you up on that hill. Features: Aggressive RIGID Styling Stainless Steel Construction Black Powder Coat Finish Includes All Necessary Hardware Limited Lifetime Warranty Specifications: Size: 6', 10 Weight: 1 lb. Over 100,000 Portuguese translations of English words and phrases. We pried and scraped and shoveled from the ooze All of RIGID’s cradles are made with 100 steel and covered with UV and abrasion resistant powder coat to ensure years of use in the harshest conditions. Portuguese Translation of cradle The official Collins English-Portuguese Dictionary online. Littering the streets- your husband among them, a son, his wife, their children-how in a panic, What we had to do among the leavings of the water, Three years, you weren't there to witness In a year of war and famine, of volcanoes burstingĪnd earthquakes shaking the ground we stood on,īut you've gone ahead to this hill earlier, Or that you wouldn't know: one day at noon, Graveyard hill, the syllables gliding stillĪll music and glod upon the tongue of memory.Īmina. Like fishbones in the traffic of daily need. please let me know, have they given you back your voice?safe among the angels, what can a woman sing?Ĭaked into silence, your dreaming crushed if you hear it among the lift and fall of angel wings, oh please send word somehow. i htink of your beauty fading and this, what's left for a daughter to touch- your namestone mute among the grass greensinging, your name i raise to the wind like a prayer.
#Translate pro series cradles cracked#
amina, what have the angels to say of that gross outrage? you must know i keep my own name, times, i feel myself free to chosse the words of my singing, though in my own woman's voice, cracked with too much laughter, or anger, or tears, who's to listen, i don't know, admitting as i do no traffics with angels. but you've gone ahead to this hill earlier, three years, you weren't there to witness what we had to do among the leavings of the water, mud, rubble, debris, countless bodies littering the streets- your husband among them, a son, his wife, their children-how in a panic, we pried and scraped and shoveled from the ooze what had once been beloved, crammed them coffinless without ritual without tears into the maw of earth beside you up on that hill. back here, no news you'd like to hear, or that you wouldn't know: one day at noon, in a year of war and famine, of volcanoes bursting and earthquakes shaking the ground we stood on, floodwaters broke the mountains. cold letters etched on stone in ormoc's graveyard hill, the syllables gliding still all music and glod upon the tongue of memory. Not by your old name i address you, no, not by the one you went by when living in the midst, mamang, name that kept you bound to cradle, washtub, sink stove and still your back bent and all your singing caked into silence, your dreaming crushed like fishbones in the traffic of daily need.