This is the Tower Of Paris

Gambar Saya

Inilah gambar saya.

Sports Car

It is a sport car. It is a red colored Dodge Viper. I like this car very much. It is a very fast car. I want to buy this car.

Time

Time, look where are,
And what we've been trhough,
Time, sharing our dreams,
Going on day after day,
wihtout stopping for a tea break;

What's the pust has brought me,
To the man I want to be,
Remember that day,
When we used to sing,
At the back of the dorm;

Those things are going to be better,
Time, keeps on ticking,
And the world keeps on moving,
And don't ever leave the time,
Because it will hunt you,
Forever and ever!

The Lake Isle of Innesfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made.
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

- William Butler Yeats

The Dead Crow

He saw a dead crow
in a drain
near the post office.
He saw an old man
gasping for air
and a baby barely able to breathe
in a crowded morning clinic.
This land is so rich.
Why should we suffer like this?

I want clean air
for my grandchildren.
I want the damned fools
to leave the forest alone.
I want the trees to grow,
the rivers run free,
and the earth covered with grass.
Let the politicians plan how we may live with dignity,
Now and always.

- A. Samad Said

Life's Brief Candle

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Lifw's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And the is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. - William Shakespeare