Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (Macbeth)
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Bladeless Fans
Empty pyres With hungry flames Yearn for love And cobwebs On red-coloured cielings Sing, howl With perennial delight As the pregnant clouds Deliver The first bounty Rain
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