Introduced to me in my refugee narrative english course, Musa, in this piece, captures a poetic representation of leaving one's country of origin.
Great piece. Watch!
the literary and extraordinary
Westside Bruin Hope Gang |
The lil one, after crying a storm, fell asleep in my arms. |
The beyond passionate foosballers. They adore this table! |
"They were working on him without his heart having a muscular beat," Tobin said. "In effect, he was dead in that time … throughout the whole resuscitation period you are worrying."You know the longer the resuscitation goes on the less chance there is of survival, but this is slightly different. This is a very fit 23-year-old."
"Two hours after (regaining consciousness) I whispered in his ear, 'What's your name?' and he, 'Fabrice Muamba.' I said, 'I hear you're a really good footballer' and he said, 'I try.' I had a tear in my eye."
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.