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não sei o que me aconteceu. não posso com a luz do sol, tão forte.... . ainda agora acordei. e já me estou a levantar, é cedo.... . tarde, era bem melhor,.
I was a boy,. Just nine years old,. I heard the call and came.. . They buried me. Beneath the water,. Then I rose again.. . Well, you know my dad was a preacher man..
It's enough to drive a man crazy; it'll break a man's faith. It's enough to make him wonder if he's ever been sane. When he's bleating for comfort from Thy staff and Thy rod.
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I know you've been afraid. Don't know what to do. You've been lost in the questions. I don't know what to say. I'm sure if I were you. I'd proceed with some caution.
Oh God, I am furrowed like the field. Torn open like the dirt. And I know that to be healed. That I must be broken first. I am aching for the yield. That You will harvest from this hurt.
I tried to be brave but I hid in the dark. I sat in that cave and I prayed for a spark. To light up all the pain that remained in my heart. And the rain kept falling.
I cannot explain the ways of love. Life cannot explain the grace of kindness. There's no reason that can satisfy enough. The healing of this blindness.
Why don't the mountains make me cry no more?. They don't sing the way they did before. They're just piles of stone. As dead as bones. Like corpses on a field of war.
Come climb the hill with me. Come and be still with me. Come watch the sun sink away. If you will with me. . Come watch the garden grow. Down by the gravel road.
I've been waiting for the sun. To come blazing up out of the night like a bullet from a gun. Till every shadow is scattered, every dragon's on the run.
I saw the desert wind tear across the wilderness. I felt it blowing off the page. The teacher told me, "Son, always remember this". And I have always been afraid.
Do you remember, Jody Baxter. When the whippoorwill sings. How you stole across the pasture. To the little hidden spring?. Where you laid down by the water.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Now there's only one day left to go. Till you walk by. Below my window. The weekends drive me mad. Holidays are oh too sad. 'Cause you don't go.
You wanna make Van Goghs. Raise 'em up like sheep. Make 'em out of Eskimos. And women if you please. Make 'em nice and normal. Make 'em nice and neat.
My analyst told me. That I was right out of my head. The way he described it. He said I'd be better dead than alive. I didn't listen to his jive. I knew all along.
Varnished weeds in window jars. Tarnished beads on tapestries. Kept in satin boxes are. Reflections of love's memories. . Letters from across the seas.