The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.
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Anand Thakur
The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.
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The old must always make way for the new, and one thing must be built out of the ruins of another. There is no murky pit of hell awaiting anyone.
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Human life lay foul before men’s eyes, crushed to the dust beneath religion’s weight.
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Fear was the first thing on Earth to create gods.
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Things stand apart so far and differ, that What’s food for one is poison for another.
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The drops of rain make a hole in the stone not by violence but by oft falling.
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What came from the earth returns back to the earth, and the spirit that was sent from heaven, again carried back, is received into the temple of heaven.
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If men saw that a term was set to their troubles, they would find strength in some way to withstand the hocus-pocus and intimidations of the prophets.
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Air, I should explain, becomes wind when it is agitated.
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Out beyond our world there are, elsewhere, other assemblages of matter making other worlds. Ours is not the only one in air’s embrace.
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For fools admire and love those things they see hidden in verses turned all upside down, and take for truth what sweetly strokes the ears and comes with sound of phrases fine imbued.
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Pleasant it to behold great encounters of warfare arrayed over the plains, with no part of yours in peril.
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One thing is made of another, and nature allows no new creation except at the price of death.
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How many evils have flowed from religion.
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You alone govern the nature of things. Without you nothing emerges into the light of day, without you nothing is joyous or lovely.
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Whenever anything changes and quits its proper limits, this change is at once the death of that which was before.
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