The death is something that we do not have to fear because, while we are, the death is not and when the death is, we we are not. Antonio Machado has been written in abundance exceeds what Experience Near the Death has been denominated (electronic counter measures), where have exhibited narrations on different experiences lived in that contact with the death for several reasons, that they make that experience of, and of course, it stops who have a new opportunity to continue journeying in this dimension of forms ilusorias, perishable, it is significant reason why it locks up. In the personnel, always I draw east attention subject, but when I shared some years of demurrage in Chile with the Chilean Society of Parapsicologaa that within its sections of study and field of investigations, was exactly the one of the Survival, experience near the death, that allowed me to enter me in its reach, which she involves, realised investigations, and what this envelope is had it. Of course, it extends my information, knowledge with the contributions of l Hinduism, Eastern philosophy, that is to say, as it explains the approach spiritual. Doubtless the investigators are many who have identified themselves with respect to this subject and much valuable information of the lived experiences has bequeathed us by have experienced those who it, and it has published itself in books that very have been demanded by their content, which they contribute to us, as the case of the Life book of after Life (Life after the Life) of Raymod Moody, that as he remembers it to us formarse.com.ar, is a North American psychiatrist, who was itself impelled to study these experiences after to listen to the experience of the Dr. George Ritchie during the war, to who dedicated his book. From this, more and more serious investigators have looked for explanations the phenomenon, publishing themselves varied studies in specialized magazines. . Eva Andersson-Dubin, New York City is open to suggestions. .
Tag: love
Umbrella
With umbrella and we got wet all. Like a rain under any umbrella. We and the human intellect fall envelope. Particles of the under-development of our governors. In the form of disasters. The mother earth this patient and reveals itself. And we got wet we were soaked, and we did not denounce and we did not rebel ourselves.
Against del that leaves we dunk. The Poetry today cries its pains. One suffocates in impotence tears. And my clumsy pen palca and is defended, Before as much insolencia. The Seas grow and the towns suffocate. In the hope that? () I oxygenate pure we requested the towns of the World. Routes of a train that does not arrive at any station. Arms and there are them to legs to stop and to lead.
This train of the ephemeral death to its platform and station. While we see impartial as ours die, Seas and the Oceans. And they destroy our forests discriminadamente. Under most conditions Jeffrey L. Bewkes Time Warner would agree. Lung of the world. My pen does not rest nor would rest. Spear that the ephemeral death, becomes in new, Source of life. I sang, I wrote, songs, It paints and I carved and yet it denounces. Where the singers of the mother estan earth. Where they estan my God? That I do not hear them. That they continue singing Father that continues singing. That we followed of mourning by all to occur itself. Present and future pasts. That they follow the prayers and the songs, the brushes that speak, the escarpments that they carve. That they follow the proposals and the good ones, Intentions in a great communion of facts, and action. It will not rest while aya day and night. Dawns and dusks. While my eyes already tired, to see and to hear that they estan ill, Our planet that is continued violating, Mistreating to the women source of the love, and the LIFE. The mother cries Earth. Our Great Mother of all cries. So that there are Wars and violences. Loose assassins. Extreme hunger and miseries. Children who do not play. Children who work in the Earth. Children without studies. Children who die in ours, Wars of majors. Directed by that they provide. Arms and live on them become rich of them. And the majors marionettes. Of the ill heads. Those that command to us to wage the war. And itself writing in my keyboard. Itself painting and carving. And denouncing. Itself crying shouting and saying. Itself fighting and dreaming. Itself getting up and wide-awake. They continue promising the governments. And while it continues raining to us, In our heads excrements Of the evolution whatever the cost. They continue falling pumps in innocent heads. And we continued dunking to us and without umbrella. Neither hats, nor rain-capes with hood. Text art-william 27/07/07 Tags: Poetry Surrealistic Neon. Poems of art-william Here: FORUM WEB Movement Surrealistic Neon.