Psalms 24:1 The earth is the lord ’s, and everything in it. The world and all its people belong to him.Leviticus 19:33-34“Do not ill-treat or take advantage of foreigners who are living in your land. Treat them as you would a fellow- brother, and love them as you love yourselves. Remember that you were once foreigners in the land of Egypt. I am the Lord your God.Let's stop greed and jealousy of other people accomplishment.Let us not just talk and start acting or doing action. Let's all unite and stop this spirit of xenophobia.Lord I pray for peace in this country .

I feel there will be a time. A time when there will be no agony. I will never cry. There will come a time when my smile will be genuine. You will be able to tell. I feel there will come a time when the winds will carry all the wrinkles away when the rain will bring beauty with it when the sun shine will carry the birds my way. When the flowers will be welcome in this world. The pain I feel will not stay forever. Nothing will last. The good brought bad with it. I know the bad has already begun. What I know more is that the good is hidden in it. It is never gone. It will never go. And I will wait!

Tears are good for you," Raphael said. When she opened her eyes back up, he knelt down. His large frame seemed to make the room shrink. His face was almost level with hers as his eyes met Emma's. "They are a gift from the Creator to his creation. Tears release endorphins in the mind that help sooth and comfort. They cleanse the eyes and relieve stress, thereby lowering blood pressure and taking strain off of the heart. He created you with tears and nothing he created is bad. Those tears you are holding in are necessary, Emma. Let them fall, let them heal, and let them remind you with each one that you are not alone.

Rosy lifted her arm, tried to say something, then pointed at the cafe, held her head, covered her mouth and—humiliation of humiliations—she began to cry. Right there in the street. “I’m so confused,” she said but it came out as a great honking wail.“Come here, you silly girl,” Phyllis said.The woman put her arms around Rosy, patted her back, and for the first time in forever, Rosy allowed herself to just cry.A young mother with twins in a pram passed them. The children’s eyes tracked Rosy for a second before their faces crumpled and they started to cry too.“I’m sorry,” Rosy said, and flapped her arms. “I’m sorry.

One weekend it rained for 48 hours without stopping. The rain beat like bony fingers against the window panes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Fungus was growing on the walls. I polished off a bottle of gin sitting huddled over the two-bar electric fire and wrote a poem, one of the few that has lasted through the moves and the years. It is called 'Where Can I Go?'If this is not the place where tears are understood where do I go to cry? If this is not the place where my spirits can take wing where do I go to fly?If this is not the place where my feelings can be heard where do I go to speak? If this is not the place where you’ll accept me as I am where can I go to be me? If this is not the place where I can try and learn and grow where can I go to laugh and cry?

— This world is full of trouble, umfundisi.—Who knows it better?—Yet you believe?Kumalo looked at him under the light of the lamp. I believe, he said, but I have learned that it is a secret. Pain and suffering, they are a secret. Kindness and love, they are a secret. But I have learned that kindness and love can pay for pain and suffering. There is my wife, and you, my friend, and these people who welcomed me, and the child who is so eager to be with us here in Ndotsheni – so in my suffering I can believe.— I have never thought that a Christian would be free of suffering, umfundisi. For our Lord suffered. And I come to believe that he suffered, not to save us from suffering, but to teach us how to bear suffering. For he knew that there is no life without suffering.Kumalo looked at his friend with joy. You are a preacher, he said.

The worse thing I have done in my life is Diary writing.... a wastage of time, wastage of papers filled with some imaginary feelings and bunch of silly activities done each day.... I cant feel any glimpse of appreciable work done by me, as whatever right I did, my Diary says " you were suppose to do it, so it was not a big deal....huhhh..." I passed my last few nights in reading most of its pages.... "I laughed on the lines telling about my saddest moments and nights when I cried….. but I felt woeful and downhearted on the lines telling about the moments when I shared my smile with someone, when I enjoyed the moments with my friends and near and dear ones, who r far and far now, and we can’t get those moments back in this busy selfish life" So now its better in busy life to live evry day and forget it in night.... enjoy life.... save papers.... no diary writing from today..... Sorry Diary, You will Miss Me....

Laugh, even when you feel too sick or too worn out or tired. Smile, even when you're trying not to cry and the tears are blurring your vision. Sing, even when people stare at you and tell you your voice is crappy. Trust, even when your heart begs you not to. Twirl, even when your mind makes no sense of what you see. Frolick, even when you are made fun of. Kiss, even when others are watching. Sleep, even when you're afraid of what the dreams might bring. Run, even when it feels like you can't run any more.And, always, remember, even when the memories pinch your heart. Because the pain of all your experience is what makes you the person you are now. And without your experience---you are an empty page, a blank notebook, a missing lyric. What makes you brave is your willingness to live through your terrible life and hold your head up high the next day. So don't live life in fear. Because you are stronger now, after all the crap has happened, than you ever were back before it started.

The walls weren't moving, and the room was open - gaping. No colors, but shades of darkness, of night . Only those star-flecked violet eyes were bright, full of color and light. He gave me a lazy smile before he leaned forward.I pullled away, but his hands were like shackles. I could do nothing as his mouth met with my cheek, and he licked away a tear. His tongue was hot against my skin, so starling that I couldn't move as he licked away another path of salt water, and then another. My body went taut and loose all at once and I burned, even as chills shuddered along my limbs. It was only when his tongue danced along the damp edges of my lashes that I jerked back.He chuckled as I scrambled for the corner of the cell. I wiped my face as I glared at him.He smirked, sitting down against a wall. "I figured that would get you to stop crying.""It was disgusting." I wiped my face again."Was it?" He quirked an eyebrow and pointed to his palm - to the place where my tatoo would be. "Beneath all your pride and stubbornness, I could have sowrn I detected something that felt differently. Interesting.""Get out.""As usual, your gratitude is overwhelming.

Think about itThis xenophobia has hurt me without anyone touching me, but by what I am seeing and the damages it's causing to this country, business, celebrities and citizens.For I believe there is a conspiracy behind this xenophobia attack. This thing might be political also. I think there are people who being paid for this attacks. To cause this violence. When people are being transported by train and buses to cause xenophobia to other provinces and cities. Who is funding those people. I am sure those people are following mandate or protocols from someone.What kind of people or humans are this. Who would watch a person burn to Ashes screaming his/her life out. They burn and killed people whom they don't know and who have done nothing direct to them but who have helped them.They kill and injure innocent people. They commit murder and enjoy killing. Then they wrap it around xenophobia. That's not xenophobia that's murder.They do breakings , rape and steal wrap it around xenophobia. That's not xenophobia that's crime.This hatefull people they are taking the country down. They are costing the country locally and internationally.Let's stop promoting this xenophobia attacks. But let's stand against them. It might be nice now you laughing. But wait until mistakenly you get shot or die because this.Now I am afraid to walk in the street of this country. Something as small as this .if we entertain it. If we support it can cause war on our nation. Say no to Xenophobia.When your promoting and supporting xenophobia. Your promoting crime , murder and theft. Tomorrow don't complain when this happen to you. When someone steal and kill you.People let's stand against this evil spirit, psychopaths, unacceptable violent behaviour. And these hateful individuals who are being paid to destroy this country. United we stand , divided we fall.

[Robert's eulogy at his brother, Ebon C. Ingersoll's grave. Even the great orator Robert Ingersoll was choked up with tears at the memory of his beloved brother]The record of a generous life runs like a vine around the memory of our dead, and every sweet, unselfish act is now a perfumed flower.Dear Friends: I am going to do that which the dead oft promised he would do for me.The loved and loving brother, husband, father, friend, died where manhood's morning almost touches noon, and while the shadows still were falling toward the west.He had not passed on life's highway the stone that marks the highest point; but, being weary for a moment, he lay down by the wayside, and, using his burden for a pillow, fell into that dreamless sleep that kisses down his eyelids still. While yet in love with life and raptured with the world, he passed to silence and pathetic dust.Yet, after all, it may be best, just in the happiest, sunniest hour of all the voyage, while eager winds are kissing every sail, to dash against the unseen rock, and in an instant hear the billows roar above a sunken ship. For whether in mid sea or 'mong the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death.This brave and tender man in every storm of life was oak and rock; but in the sunshine he was vine and flower. He was the friend of all heroic souls. He climbed the heights, and left all superstitions far below, while on his forehead fell the golden dawning, of the grander day.He loved the beautiful, and was with color, form, and music touched to tears. He sided with the weak, the poor, and wronged, and lovingly gave alms. With loyal heart and with the purest hands he faithfully discharged all public trusts.He was a worshipper of liberty, a friend of the oppressed. A thousand times I have heard him quote these words: 'For Justice all place a temple, and all season, summer!' He believed that happiness was the only good, reason the only torch, justice the only worship, humanity the only religion, and love the only priest. He added to the sum of human joy; and were every one to whom he did some loving service to bring a blossom to his grave, he would sleep to-night beneath a wilderness of flowers.Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us believe, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead.And now, to you, who have been chosen, from among the many men he loved, to do the last sad office for the dead, we give his sacred dust.Speech cannot contain our love. There was, there is, no gentler, stronger, manlier man.

Странно е, че всички грешки свършват еднакво, че винаги ги повтаряме и продължаваме с нови надежди. Цяла нощ хапем устни, хълцаме във възглавницата с безпомощен гняв и твърдо се заклеваме да останем самотни, а щом съмне, поднасяме душата си като нежен балон от цъфнало глухарче на насрещните ветрове на живота и те го ронят и разнасят. Ала който спаси само едно малко пухче и го внесе на завет, той е спасил цялата си душа. Това е горчива работа, но който не обръща нежното цвете на душата си към ветровете на изпитанията, дори цялото да го спаси и да го пренесе докрай, той не може да почувства, че изобщо някога го е имал.