Multilingual Love Quotes

She is intuition, she is far-seer, she is deep listener, she is loyal heart. She encourages humans to remain multilingual; fluent in the languages of dreams, passion, and poetry. She whispers from night dreams, she leaves behind on the terrain of a woman’s soul a coarse hair and muddy footprints. These fill women with longing to find her, free her, and love her. She is ideas, feelings, urges, and memory. She has been lost and half-forgotten for a long, long time. She is the source, the light, the night, the dark, and daybreak.

The body is a multilingual being. It speaks through its colour and its temperature, the flush of recognition, the glow of love, the ash of pain, the heat of arousal, the coldness of non-conviction. It speaks through its constant tiny dance, sometimes swaying, sometimes a-jitter, sometimes trembling. It speaks through the leaping of the heart, the falling of the spirit, the pit at the centre, and rising hope. The body remembers, the bones remember, the joints remember, even the little finger remembers. Memory is lodged in pictures and feelings in the cells themselves. Like a sponge filled with water, anywhere the flesh is pressed, wrung, even touched lightly, a memory may flow out in a stream.

So what compromises the Wild Woman? From the viewpoint of archetypal psychology as well as in ancient traditions, she is the female soul. Yet she is more; she is the source of the feminine. She is all that is of instinct, of the worlds both seen and hidden—she is the basis. We each receive from her a glowing cell which contains all the instincts and knowings needed for our lives. “...She is the Life/Death/Life force, she is the incubator. She is intuition, she is far-seer, she is deep listener, she is loyal heart. She encourages humans to remain multilingual; fluent in the languages of dreams, passion, and poetry. She whispers from night dreams, she leaves behind on the terrain of a woman’s soul a coarse hair and muddy footprints. These fill women with longing to find her, free her, and love her.

Now I am writing this diary in English, which for me is not the language of intimacy or love, but an attempt at distance and sanity, a means of recalling normality.

Hurt strengthens the heart, Breakdown emboldens backbone. Scars shared are scars cared, I stand ready to sip your poison.

What happened? Stan repeats. To us? To the country? What happened when childhood ends in Dealey Plaza, in Memphis, in the kitchen of the Ambassador, your belief your hope your trust lying in a pool of blood again? Fifty-five thousand of your brothers dead in Vietnam, a million Vietnamese, photos of naked napalmed children running down a dirt road, Kent State, Soviet tanks roll into Prague so you turn on drop out you know you can't reinvent the country but maybe you reimagine yourself you believe you really believe that you can that you can create a world of your own and then you lower that expectation to just a piece of ground to make a stand on but then you learn that piece of ground costs money that you don't have. What happened? Altamont, Charlie Manson, Sharon Tate, Son of Sam, Mark Chapman we saw a dream turn into a nightmare we saw love and peace turn into endless war and violence our idealism into realism our realism into cynicism our cynicism into apathy our apathy into selfishness our selfishness into greed and then greed was good and we Had babies, Ben, we had you and we had hopes but we also had fears we created nests that became bunkers we made our houses baby-safe and we bought car seats and organic apple juice and hired multilingual nannies and paid tuition to private schools out of love but also out of fear. What happened? You start by trying to create a new world and then you find yourself just wanting to add a bottle to your cellar, a few extra feet to the sunroom, you see yourself aging and wonder if you've put enough away for that and suddenly you realize that you're frightened of the years ahead of you what Happened? Watergate Irangate Contragate scandals and corruption all around you and you never think you'll become corrupt but time corrupts you, corrupts as surely as gravity and erosion, wears you down wears you out I think, son, that the country was like that, just tired, just worn out by assassinations, wars, scandals, by Ronald Reagan, Bush the First selling cocaine to fund terrorists, a war to protect cheap gas, Bill Clinton and realpolitik and jism on dresses while insane fanatics plotted and Bush the Second and his handlers, a frat boy run by evil old men and then you turn on the TV one morning and those towers are coming down and the war has come home what Happened? Afghanistan and Iraq the sheer madness the killing the bombing the missiles the death you are back in Vietnam again and I could blame it all on that but at the end of the day at the end of the day we are responsible for ourselves. We got tired, we got old we gave up our dreams we taught ourselves to scorn ourselves to despise our youthful idealism we sold ourselves cheap we aren't Who we wanted to be.

VISIONS OF GRANDEUR I'm walking through a sheet of glass instead of the door, Flying over a giant candlestick lighting up Central Park, Repeating two courses at Hard Knock's College, And swimming through the Red Sea with silky jelly fish. I'm hopping over an empty row house in Philadelphia, Getting a seventy dollar manicure on a gondola in Venice, Wearing a white pearl necklace stolen from Goodwill, And running my first New York City marathon. I'm discussing the meaning of life with my late cat Charlie. Dating John Doe- the thirty-third chef at the White House, Running non-stop on a broken leg through a bomb-blasted city, And keeping a multi-lingual monkey named Alfredo as my pet. I'm spying on two hundred and twenty-two homegrown terrorists from Iowa, Worshiped by a red-headed gorilla named Salamander, Sleeping with a giant teddy bear dressed in black leather, And wearing hot pink lipstick over a shade of midnight blue.

...She is the Life/Death/Life force, she is the incubator. She is intuition, she is far-seer, she is deep listener, she is loyal heart. She encourages humans to remain multilingual; fluent in the languages of dreams, passion, and poetry. She whispers from night dreams, she leaves behind on the terrain of a woman’s soul a coarse hair and muddy footprints. These fill women with longing to find her, free her, and love her. “She is ideas, feelings, urges, and memory. She has been lost and half forgotten for a long, long time. She is the source, the light, the night, the dark, and daybreak. She is the smell of good mud and the back leg of the fox. The birds which tell us secrets belong to her. She is the voice that says, ‘This way, this way.

Time is love, love is time - Tiempo es amor, amor es tiempo. Her saat sevda saatidir, Humano es amor, amor humano.

All through history every culture on earth has produced its distinct literature - American literature, British literature, Latino Literature, Arabic literature, Turkish literature, European literature, Bengali literature and so on. I am none of these, because I am all of these - Naskar is the amalgamation of all of world's cultures. Naskar is the first epitome of integrated Earth literature - where there is no inferior, no superior - no greater, no lesser. Soulfulness of Rumiland, heartfulness of Martíland, correctiveness of MLKland, sweetness of Tagoreland - merge them all in the fire of love, and lo emerges Naskarland - merge them all in the fire of love, and lo emerges lightland.

Amor Armada (The Sonnet) I don't do drugs, languages are my LSD. Half-lovers crave escape, I crave absolute unity. Music is my MDMA, Cultures, my cocaine. Languages are my LSD, People are my heaven. Those drunk on love, language and culture, need no artificial stimulant. Only the half-lovers and the half-dead, chase booze, drugs and institutions. I'm drunk with the spirit of sacrifice, You can keep your puny bottled charisma. In a world of broken glass and cigarette buds, I am Amor Armada.

Those drunk on love, language and culture, need no artificial stimulant. Only the half-lovers and the half-dead, chase booze, drugs and institutions.

Scars shared are scars cared.

Hurt strengthens the heart.

Love if there is time - Love, and there is time. Love if there is breath - Love, and there is breath.

Love is the bedrock of us all.

Love if there is time - Love, and there is time.

Genocide is patriotism.

Seek yourself in the joy of neighbors, You shall know the meaning of justice. Seek yourself in smiles of the world, You shall emerge as antidote to malice.

Even after speaking six languages, I say, the supreme language is love.

Plenticultural (Sonnet 1434) When I get mad, I revert to English, because English is my first language. When I feel romantic, I revert to Turkish, because Turkish is my love language. When I feel passionate, I revert to Spanish, because Spanish is my passion language. When I feel electric, I revert to Telugu, because Telugu is my power language. When nothing works, I revert to Korean, because Korean is my backup language. And you wonder why I never run empty, why the natural spring is ever abundant! Language is the gateway to culture, Culture is the gateway to life. I am no person who speaks many tongues, I am the proof of plenticultural life.

Hometown Human Sonnet Everybody loves Rumi, I learnt his tongue, So I could pick up where he left off. Better than basking in borrowed light, Is to be an original light to the world. Everybody yells, viva la libertad, I learnt el idioma, so I could humanize the paradigm of revolution. Everybody loves Indus valley diversity, Annitiki munde anni shaashtralu nerchkunnanu, So I'm never out of spice for my humanitarianism. Everybody loves boasting about their culture, I spent years making all the cultures my own. Thus my strength was amplified a thousand folds, My sight expanded beyond all norms of vision known. Polyglots have more fun - there is no question. When science, poetry and polyglottery come together, That's the beginning of a paradigm bending revolution.

You are my Mecca, You are my Bethlehem, You are my El Dorada, You are my Washington. Istanbul to Alpha Centauri, Tu sonrisa es mi cura. California to Kanyakumari, Sen gülünce ben fakira.

The body is a multilingual being. It speaks through its color and its temperature, the flush of recognition, the glow of love, the ash of pain, the heat of arousal, the coldness of nonconviction. It speaks through its constant tiny dance, sometimes swaying, sometimes a-jitter, sometimes trembling. It speaks through the leaping of the heart, the falling of the spirit, the pit at the center, and rising hope.

The deepest connection you have with someone & their culture, is through learning their language.

Mumbai is the shahar of dreams to which thousands flock every year. Its beauty and glory are both enchanting and enticing. It’s a city of fortunes, a city of poverty, a city of hope, a city of pain, a city of success, a city of loss, a city of stories, a city of games, a city of fate, a city of destiny, a city of love and a city of heartbreak. Changes occur in Mumbai minute by minute, mile by mile and inch by inch. Some dreams gain flight, while others burn in despair. Mumbai is a city that never sleeps. It is always abuzz. Its inhabitants are multilingual and of different faiths. Some come to Mumbai in search of their passion, while others come in search of an identity. The shahar’s glamor, fashion and film stars attract people from all over India. The ameer, the gareeb, all come to Mumbai to search for their niche with the umeed of making it big someday. Hence, the hustle and bustle of the city makes its inhabitants feel both unimportant and significant simultaneously.