I'm not the one who's so far awayWhen I feel the snake bite enter my veins. Never did I wanna be here again, And I don't remember why I came.
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You all have a gift. It's free. It's the gift of song.
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Poetry is the language of the soul; Poetic Prose, the language of my heart. Each line must flow as in a song, and strike a chord that rings forever. To me, words are music!
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Owls hoot in B flat, cuckoos in D, but the water ousel sings in the voice of the stream. She builds her nest back of the waterfalls so the water is a lullaby to the little ones. Must be where they learn it.
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I guess in this culture of ever-shortening attention spans, it's good if a song can lift us out of the madness, even if only for a few minutes.
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How many victims must that be? Slaughtered in vain across the land, And how many strugles must that be?Before we choose to live the profits planEverybody sing- Every day create your History, Every path you take you're leaving your legacyEvery soldier dies in his gloryEvery legend tells of conquest and liberty.
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The Song of the Winged Ones is a song of celebration, written as though the singer were standing on the Dragon Isle watching the dragons flying in the sun. The words are full of wonder at the beauty of the creatures; and there is a curious pause in the middle of one of the stanzas near the end, where the singer waits a full four measures in silence for those who listen to hear the music of distant dragon wings. It seldom fails to bring echoes of something beyond the silence, and is almost never performed because many bards fear it.I love it.
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The Qu'ran is God's song, not ours, not even Muhammad's. To allow such a song to pass through one's body, however imperfectly, is to discover that the instrument is transformed by the music.
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I want to write a song based on my own childbirth. Of course, this is all a bit premature.
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When all that you've tried, leaves nothing but holes inside.
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I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean.
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Who are you?Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies?Have you created a life for yourself where you can experience them?I have. I am fucking crazy. But I am free.
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Maybe the reason why all the doors are closed so you could open one that leads you to the perfect road.
The bird music sank into her, like a song you used to know but forgot long ago. You hear a piano play it some day, and for a minute you feel a happy pain, but you don't know why. Bird felt like that.
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And tonight I'm feelin like an astronaut, sending sos from this tiny box, and i lost the signal when i lifted off, now i'm stuck up here and the world forgot, can i please come down? Cuz i'm tired of drifting round and round.. Can i please come down? Now I lie awake and scream in my zero gravity.. And its starting to weigh down on me.. Lets abort this mission now.. CAN I PLEASE COME DOWN? So tonight I'm calling all the astronauts, all the lonely people that the world forgot, if you hear my voice, come pick me up, cuz ur all i've got..
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At that moment a solitary violin struck up. But the music was not dance music; it was more like a song - a solemn, sweet song. (I know now that it was Beethoven's Romance in F.) I listened, and suddenly it was as if the fog that surrounded me had been penetrated, as if I were being spoken to.
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I knew it was Peter playing. I fancied he was trying to tell me something - an absurd idea, but it persisted - 'I may not be able to spell, but just you listen to this.
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But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, You'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say Ave there for me, And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be, For you will bend and tell me that you love me, And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me
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Anything too stupid to be said is sung.
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People ask me how I make music. I tell them I just step into it. It's like stepping into a river and joining the flow. Every moment in the river has its song.
A great song should lift your heart, warm the soul and make you feel good.
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Every man needs his Siren To check his courage and strength When he hears her song In his travels through the unknown.
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Sparrows and cats will live in my shoe, Sooner than I will live with you. Fish will come walking out of the sea, Sooner than you will come back to me.
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To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying, The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying. West, west away, the round sun is falling, Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling, The voices of my people that have gone before me? I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me; For our days are ending and our years failing.I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing. Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling, Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling, In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover, Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!
Far over the misty mountains coldTo dungeons deep and caverns oldWe must away ere break of dayTo seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bellsIn places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lordThere many a gleaming golden hoardThey shaped and wrought, and light they caughtTo hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strungThe flowering stars, on crowns they hungThe dragon-fire, in twisted wireThey meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains coldTo dungeons deep and caverns oldWe must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselvesAnd harps of gold; where no man delvesThere lay they long, and many a songWas sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The wind was moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the daleAnd men looked up with faces pale; The dragon's ire more fierce than fireLaid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fallBeneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grimTo dungeons deep and caverns dimWe must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!
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