Through civilization the deep beat of blood, the accuracy and mystery of the viaduct, at what once was the far edge of Earth to the tribes of Europe. Words riverine: a language of the free. Her free favor we forgot, kept in Celtic tombs, quartzes in the East face catch sunrise, Andromeda is with sunrise, when you decipher the map in dreams, when you see the city eternally stone, the future late in coming. Imaxina canto se retrasa o futuro. What to call this life. The memory of an arch. Every life comes from afar. Todas viƱeron de lonxe as vidas. Poetically they are inactive. They think, but it is warm or there are flies. If they can take Hancock's warf they can take your cow or my barn. Mind come to plenum when nothing more will go. The wind mad as Cassandra. What relation could there be between feet trained to walk beside the sea with a breeze from the ancient oak grove? to walk beside the sea with a breeze from the ancient oak grove? I can see him now. In our gatherings a reflection of the borrowed glory, everyone suffered the same turmoil. Having forced their dusty volumes to go together with an understanding of modern life, multiplied in monasteries on the threshold of his days. He had to read a considerable amount, both once and for all and in the years to come, notably anything having to do with man's eventual grandeur, whether in history or himself, or the doubt, or what is promised. history or himself, or the doubt, or what is promised. What marks the greatest distances. My mount halts and drinks and mute the ideal rises, wanders in the woods, voice clear-pitched, clear distillate, como as bebidas brancas, branco apocalipse. If one in loss returned to natal indigence, the reader returns to nativity mute as a trout, illiterate as stones, to learn again, all over again, e aprender de novo, civilization a terrible memory extended beyond the Lethe floodplain, the sediment deposits that fertilize dead dirt, the marshy cradle sealed off by sterile soil, Ur the all-conquering appeared and soon pervasive lexical borrowing evident everywhere, a Sprachbund. After the demise of the third dynasty the lavish remains, the abode of Nanna. The king continued after his death. His journey to the underworld: entire land struck, the palace devastated, panic spread rapidly among the dwellings of the black-headed, abandoned places, cities destroyed in their entirety, people seized with panic. Evil came upon Urim. The truthworthy shepherd passed away. It made the trustworthy shepherd pass away. Altered, holy words became empty, deceitfully fate completely changed, began a lament, the great door shut, Nanna frowned. No sun rose in the sky, the day full of sorrow. The mother miserable because of her son. Oh my heart! Weeping bitterly in the broad square, sweet sleep did not come, they passed their time in lamentation over the trustworthy shepherd snatched away. The mottled barley was inundated. The mottled barely grown on the arable lands, the life of the land, inundated. To the farmer, the fertile fields yielded little. The plains did not grow lush grass anymore: they grow the grass of mourning. The cattle-pen destroyed, the calves bleated bitterly. The wise shepherd does not give orders anymore. The ornament of the assembly lies sick. Hands which used to grasp cannot grasp anymore: he lies sick. The sword of Sumer, the king of the Land, was taken. Silence descended. He who was the vigour of the Land had fallen, the Land demolished, like a cypress forest stripped. Like axes against a boxwood tree in his joyous dwelling place. A sappy cedar tree uprooted where he used to sleep. A storm embraced it like a wife her sweetheart. His appointed time arrived. He passed away in his prime. No more rising up. Abandoned like a broken jar. With grandeur like thick clouds. He does not anymore reach out. Alas, what is it to me? Their boat was sunk, stripped of oars, punting poles and rudder, bolt broken off. The journey to the nether world is a desolate route. The chariots were covered over, roads thrown into disorder. Dead priests chosen by extispicy announced the king's coming, a tumult arose in the nether world. He slaughtered numberless faultless bulls and fattened sheep, he seated the people at a great feast. The food was bitter, the water was brackish. He offered a large bow with quiver and arrows, an artful dagger, a many-coloured leather bag for a saddle-hook, a heavenly lion-headed mace, a shield resting on the ground, a battle-axe, a heavy long-fleeced garment, a lordly golden sceptre, a shining hand, perfectly wrought jewellery, a golden ring, pure cornelian stone fit for the breasts of the gods, a chest with lapis-lazuli handle containing everything essential, a silver hair clasp, a comb of womanly fashion, a chariot with wheels of sparkling gold, donkeys with dappled thighs, thoroughbreds, a gold and silver toggle-pin with a bison's head, an august headdress of sage and alabaster, a stylus, the hallmark of the scribe, a surveyor's gleaming line, and the measuring rod. He presented these offerings to the nether world, to the god of the nether world, the king of the nether world in his palace, he who decrees all the fates, the valiant warrior, the august scribe, seated on the great dais of the underworld. He was given a dwelling place. He was given all the soldiers killed by weapons and all the men found guilty. After seven and ten days passed lamentation for Sumer overwhelmed my king, heart rent by regret. The wall of Ur was incomplete. He could no longer bring pleasure to his wife with their embrace. He could not bring up his sons on his knees, nor see the beauty of their little sisters. I served the gods well. I built their chapels. I created evident abundance. I have laid my treasures on their beds strewn with fresh herbs. No god stood by me. Any favorable portent was far away as far away from me as heaven. My heart is rent. What is my reward for my eagerness to serve? My days are finished. As the rain pouring down from heaven cannot turn back, alas, I cannot turn back to brick built Ur. My strength has ebbed away. My wife has become a widow. Like a wild bull, I cannot... Like a mighty bull, like an offshoot Like an ass, I died. No goddess cares for her. No august arm rests firm upon her head. No lord leads her by her hand, her lord is silent, no longer can answer. She is cast adrift like a ship in a raging storm. The mooring pole not strong enough. Like a wild ass lured into a perilous pit she has been treated heavy-handedly. Like a lion in a pitfall, like a dog in a cage, none pay heed to the cries Oh, my king! overwhelming her. Flute songs have turned to laments because of me. I sit upon a heap of soil, while my throne, whose beauty was endless, is empty. I lie upon the desolate steppe, while my bed, whose beauty was endless, is empty, my wife and children wailing. The men I commanded are now dirge-singers for her. Smoke plumes billow from the burning ziggurat. Nothing can be forgotten again. Not ever again. Something must remain intact. Something dark and dreadful. Horn sounds over immense distances. My wife and children wailing. The warlike lady was not present at my verdict. She had turned her gaze away. Once someone has bowed down, he cannot anymore. You cannot see him anymore. The fierce storm, the eldest child, made the heavens tremble destroyed the cattle-pens, devestated sheepfolds, hurling insults at the king of the gods, who can change the matter, the import of the august words uttered by the king? Divine ordinances are not observed, there will be no abundance, the shrine barred like the mountain, like the heavens. If only my shepherd could enter before me, I will not enter otherwise! Why should I enter it otherwise? If only my strong one could grow for me like grass in the desert. If only he could hold steady like a river boat at calm mooring. Who was killed. A fragmentary line. Your name will be called upon, from the south to the uplands. The holy sceptre remains in your palace. The grand arable land tracts you held, the reed-beds you drained, the wide barley fields you sowed and reaped, the fortresses from which you commanded legions, they will call upon your name. The foremost. The flood. Holy lion born on high. Your city standing amidst devestation, rendering just judgment of all things under heaven. My king be praised, among tears and laments, amidst tears and laments. The day was full of sorrow. The mother, wretched because of her son. When the king speaks, his words cannot be changed his words survive him, eternally stone. Where there are men, there is grain. Life prospers here, awakens, it can be recognized here by the dog that licks his hand, but not destined for Ithaca it falls to the ground, responds only to ardour and the ash of stars, would like to die with me, upon a rounded celestial hill, she rises, dances, and falls to the ground, the perfect hill did not appear, there are forests in which the trees continue to reach toward heaven, this incarnation remained for millenia, time will still endure long after the last pass through, and she returns to the walls of the old city, she who comes from afar, contemplates her kingdom, that mass of stone and dust.