L.O.T.F 4 LIFE

I'd like to meet:

Background from Yahoo search resulti really dont give a flyin F**K who i meet, to be real with ya though i will tell you who i definetly dont wanna ever meet....lol1.ANYONE WHO THINKS JAY-Z is the TRU CEO OF HIP HOP2.ANYONE WHO THINKS CHINGY IS WHERE ITS @ LMAO

Music:

.. HIP HOP ......LOL........ WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK

Movies:

Loose Change 2nd Edition Recut

Dane Cook: Insomniac Tour

Books:

The Impeachment of George W. Bush by Elizabeth HoltzmanFinally, it has started. People have begun to speak of impeaching President George W. Bush - not in hushed whispers but openly, in newspapers, on the Internet, in ordinary conversations and even in Congress. As a former member of Congress who sat on the House Judiciary Committee during the impeachment proceedings against President Richard Nixon, I believe they are right to do so.I can still remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach during those proceedings, when it became clear that the President had so systematically abused the powers of the presidency and so threatened the rule of law that he had to be removed from office. As a Democrat who opposed many of President Nixon's policies, I still found voting for his impeachment to be one of the most sobering and unpleasant tasks I ever had to undertake. None of the members of the committee took pleasure in voting for impeachment; after all, Democrat or Republican, Nixon was still our President.At the time, I hoped that our committee's work would send a strong signal to future Presidents that they had to obey the rule of law. I was wrong.

Heroes:

All MY PEEPZ WHO STOOD BY MY EVEN THROUGH THE HIGHEST OF WATERS AND ROUGHEST OF TIMES MUCH LOVE TO ALL-"SPECIALLY MY MOMS AND MY LITTLE SISTER I LOVE YOU GURL!!!!~~~POETRY~~~~~ Abdel Rahman JaamiSilsilat al Dhahab. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What is poetry? The song of the bird of the intellect. What is poetry? The likeness of the world of eternity.The value of the bird becomes clear through it, And one discovers whether it comes from the oven of a bath house or a rose garden.It composes poetry from the Divine rose garden. It draws its power and sustenance from that sacred place. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~Amjid Yaseen ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~ Awakening ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I sail to you in the ocean of my dreams To a far away distant place Of great beauty and tranquility Where pain and suffering do not exist, Where we give praise for our joy and happiness, Where our love intertwines with a love for all thingsO beloved keeper of my heart The companion of my soul You have reached out and touched the essence of my being And shown me the way to a higher planeYour love has awakened me from my years of slumber A beckoning call to the spiritual world Where my body is mist in the mountains This is where my heart belongs This is where my soul lives...~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sa'di Shirazi ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Who is the Real Seeker?I will not say, O Brother, what the spiritual concert is, Until I know who is listening to it.If he begins his flight from the tower of the spirit. The Angels will not keep up with his soaring.But if he be a man of error, vanity and play, The Shaytan will grow more powerful in his brain.The Rose is torn apart by the morning breeze, But not the log; for it can only be split by an ax.The world feeds on music, drunkenness and rivalry. But what does the blind man see in a mirror?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Muallaqa of Imru al Qays and Its Translations Into English ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ The Muallaqa of the Pre-Islamic Arab poet Imru al Qays1 is his most important poem. It is considered by many to be one of the greatest masterpieces of ancient Arabic literature, or even of Arabic literature in general. It has been translated into English several times; the first translation was done by Sir William Jones in the 18th Century, and the most recent just a few years ago, by the Irish poet Desmond O'Grady.Yet in order to truly understand its significance, it is first necessary to first explain a little the background of the time and place in which it was written. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ General Background ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The days before Islam are called in Arabic Al Jahiliyya, meaning the time of ignorance or barbarity. However, it is in during this time that some of the greatest Arabic poetry was conceived - a fact recognised even by the Muslims themselves. In these days, the Arab Peninsula was divided among many small tribal territories and kingdoms; and in each tribe there was a poet, Sha'ir, who was second in importance only to the Sheikh, the head of the tribe. The poet was responsible for keeping the history and the genealogy of the tribe, and in his poems he glorified the tribe and mocked its enemies. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ The Muallaqat ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ The Muallaqat are seven Pre-Islamic Arabic poems from around the 6th Century AD that are considered the best of their kind. The meaning of the name 'Al-Muallaqat' is 'the suspended', and this derives from the myth which developed about these poems - that, being the best poems of their time, they were written on parchments using golden ink, and hung on the walls of the Ka'ba2 for all to see. However, that name first appeared only a long time after the Muallaqat had been written, and is not mentioned at all in sources from that period; it therefore seems to be a false myth, which comes from romanticisation of the Pre-Islamic period by later scholars. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~ First Translation - Sir William Jones, 1783 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ O friend, seest thou the lightning, whose flashes resemble the quick glance of two hands amid clouds raised above clouds? The fire of it gleams like the lamps of a hermit, when the oil, poured on them, shakes the cord by which they are suspended. [...] The small birds of the valley warble at day-break, as if they had taken their early draught of generous wine mixed with spice. The beasts of the wood, drowned in the floods of night, float, like the roots of wild onions, at the distant edge of the lake. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ Sir Charles Lyall, 1877 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ O friend - see the lightning there! It flickered, and now is gone, as though flashed a pair of hands in the pillar of crowned cloud. Nay, was it its blaze, or the lamps of a hermit that dwells alone, and pours o'er the twisted wicks the oil from his slender cruse? [...] At earliest dawn on the morrow the birds were chirping blithe, as though they had drunken draughts of riot in fiery wine; And at even the drowned beasts lay where the torrent had borne them, dead, high up on the valley sides, like earth-stained roots of squills. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ RA (Reynold Alleyne) Nicholson, 1922 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ I entered. By the curtain there stood she, Clad lightly as for sleep, and looked on me. 'By god,' she cried, 'what recks thee of the cost? I see thine ancient madness is not lost.' [...] Fair in her colour, splendid in her grace, Her bosom smoothed as mirror's polished face: A white pale virgin pearl such lustre keeps, Fed with clear water in untrodden deeps. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Desmond O'Grady, 1990 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When the Pleiades shone in the sky like the precious stones stitched on a lady's scarf, I slipped through to her, found her stripped for sleep except for her single, flimsy, sleeping slip. She gasped: 'My god are you mad? Will your head and heart not heed?'[...]Look! Crowning that stormcloud. Lightning! It flashes like a bowman's hand flicks arrows from his quiver. A brilliant blaze of light like that of the lone hermit when he splashes oil on the twisted wick of his nightlamp.[...]Come morning it was as though the songbirds of the valley had drunk spiced old wine they winged and warbled so. And the wild life, lost drowned in the farthest reaches of the flood, looked like pulled up bulbs of wild onion.