Palestine

I am sorry I have nothing intelligent to say tonight the heat has zapped all my thoughts away ... brilliant write but thats becoming expected of you these days eh ??;) Hugs and love Jayne-Chloe x x

THese are the type of posts that should circulate as emails in response to hate mail that so often does the round!~THanks for showing your stars and designating who should get stripes again. Boni

how dare we bitch about the price of a Starbucks latte or stuff our selves with those empty platitudes when the earth is red with blood how true these lines... My grandfather was a soldier in WWII, my grandmother lived in a country that was bombed and lost her fiance to the beast called war... there is no such thing as a war for peace. Every war is about the innocent dying and bleeding and losing loved ones. Yours, ~Nina

As we spoke, I am forwarding this poem to my Middle East Peace Forum and 4 Palestine. My new signature line: "If parents really would love their children there would no longer be any war." J. Krishnamurti Thank you, we are ever on the same page, my Beloved.

You are so right in every way! Great work! ~ Gee

Ann of Norway This is terrific, so well put, I will not discuss it, but I do feel it, and we 'have-it-so-good' without even recognising that we do, at least some of us don't. Each day our minds wander to those places of suffering and try to send out waves of sympathy and compassion whichever side one is on, I like the Krishnamurti quote there Anna, that fits here doesn't it? Hans Børli the Norwegian poet said it well, as regards owning land. It may be me who translated so as longo say 'kinda.' "WE OWN THE FORESTS." I never owned a tree. None of my people have ever owned a tree - though my family's life-path winds over centuries' blue heights of forest. Forest in storm, forest in calm - forest, forest, forest, through all the years. My people were always a poor people. Always, Children of life's hard, iron-frosted nights. Strangers own the trees, and the soil, the stone-heaped soil my fathers cleared by the light of the moon's lamp. Strangers with smooth faces and pretty hands and their car always waiting outside the door. None of my people have ever owned a tree. And yet we own the forests by our blood's red right. Rich man, you with the car and the bankbook and stock in the Borregaard timber company: you can buy a thousand acres of forest, and a thousand acres more, but you can't buy the sunset or the whisper of the wind or the joy of walking homeward when the heather blooms along the path - No, WE own the forests, the way a child owns its mother. Amen. Ann .