Wei Wang Quotes

But…Wei WuXian looked slightly to the side. He saw Lan WangJi, who stood beside him, without any hint of hesitation, any thought of withdrawing. But, this time, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Lan XiChen, 'You believe in him?' Lan WangJi, 'I do.' He answered without any hesitation. Wei WuXian felt his chest warm up.

The people finally realized what was going on. It seemed that whenever someone tried to argue with Wei WuXian, Lan WangJi would seal their lips.

Wei WuXian grinned and pointed at himself. "How about this one?" Lan WangJi, "Mine." "..." Lan WangJi stared at him, slowly and articulately stating, "Mine.

Hearing the dog, Wei WuXian immediately felt his hair rise. He shrunk back into Lan WangJi’s arms, half-dead with fright, 'Lan Zhan!' Lan WangJi had already embraced him without needing any reminder, replying, 'I am here!' Wei WuXian, 'Hug me!' Lan WangJi, 'I am hugging you!' Wei WuXian, again, 'Hug me tight!' Lan WangJi, also, 'I am hugging you tight!

Wei WuXian suddenly murmured, '… Lan Zhan.' He reached out and grabbed one of Lan WangJi’s sleeves. Lan WangJi had always been beside him. He immediately bent down and whispered, 'I am here.

Wei WuXian called out, '… Lan Zhan.' Lan WangJi’s breathing wasn’t as placid as usual, feeling somewhat rushed. It was probably from carrying Wei WuXian while fending off attacks and being on the run for too long. The tone in which he replied, however, was still the single syllable, as steady as ever, 'Mnn.' After the 'mnn,' he added, 'I am here.

Lan WangJi, 'Is it amusing, trifling with empty words?' Wei WuXian, 'It’s very amusing. But, believe me, my words are as much a trifle as my moves are, which means not at all.

Lan WangJi picked up a teacup from the table and took a sip, his voice calm, 'Sit properly.' Wei WuXian, 'There’s no tea in the cup.' '…' Lan WangJi filled the teacup and took it to his lips again. A while later, he repeated, '… Sit properly?

With Wei WuXian dragging him and Wen Yuan clinging to his leg, Lan WangJi was finally shoved into a restaurant.

Lan WangJi, 'Is it amusing, trifling with empty words?' Wei WuXian, 'It’s very amusing. But, believe me, my words are as much a trifle as my moves are, which means not at all.' '…' Lan WangJi muttered to himself, 'Why am I sitting here having such a useless conversation with you?

Lan WangJi, 'Ridiculous!' Wei WuXian found out long ago that Lan WangJi’s temper was especially bad today. He didn’t protest any further and waved his hand, 'Okay, okay. Ridiculous it is. I’m ridiculous. I’m the most ridiculous there is.

But, even when lying down, Wei WuXian didn’t like loneliness. Soon afterward, he began to complain, “It’s too hard, it’s too hard.” Lan WangJi, “What do you want?” Wei WuXian, “I want to lie somewhere else.” Lan WangJi, “Where would you want to lie, at such a place?” Wei WuXian, “Let me borrow your lap for a while, won’t you?

Seated alone by shadowy bamboos, I strum my lyre and laugh aloud; None know that I am here, deep in the woods; Only the bright moon comes to shine on me.

Having destroyed countless sects, nobody would listen to his explanation, especially when Jin GuangYao would be there fanning the flames. Lan WangJi, though, was different from him. He wouldn’t even have to explain, and people would explain for him, such as how HanGuang-Jun had been deceived by the YiLing Patriarch. Wei WuXian, 'HanGuang-Jun, you don’t have to follow me!' Lan WangJi looked straight in front of him, saying nothing in reply.

Seeing that right after he woke up he began to speak nonsense again, Lan WangJi shook his head and turned away. Wei WuXian thought that he was going to leave. He hurried, 'Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Don’t go. I was talking nonsense, my fault, but don’t ignore me.' Lan WangJi, 'Even you are scared of others ignoring you?' Wei WuXian, 'I am, I am.

Wei WuXian shouted with all he could "Lan Zhan! Lan WangJi! HanGuangJun! Back then, I-I really wanted to sleep with you!

Lang WangJi drew his sword and went at him. Wei WuXian hurriedly hopped onto the windowsill, "Get lost it is, then. Getting lost is my best skill. It's not necessary for you to see me out!

Lan XiChen was shocked, "Young Master Wei, could it be that even after you spent such a long time together with WangJi, you still do not know of his feelings?

Lan WangJi's breaths were short and disordered. His hoarse voice whispered beside Wei WuXian's ear, "... fancy you... " Wei WuXian hugged him tight, "Yes!" Lan WangJi, "... love you, want you... " Wei WuXian raised his voice "Yes!" Lan WangJi, "Cannot leave you... do not want anyone but you... it cannot be anyone but you!

He said, “Lan Zhan, here, look at me.” Lan WangJi replied in a voice that still sounded a little tight, “Mmm.” Taking a deep breath, Wei WuXian said quietly, “……I really do have a terrible memory. I’ve forgotten a lot of things from before, including that night at the Nightless City. What really happened during those few days, I really don’t remember a thing.” Hearing this, Lan WangJi’s eyes widened slightly. Wei WuXian abruptly clutched Lan WangJi’s shoulders and continued, “But! But starting from now, everything you say to me, everything you do to me, I’ll remember them all, I’ll never forget a thing!” “……” Wei WuXian said, “You’re wonderful. I really like you.” “……” “Or rather, I should say, I fancy you, love you, want you, can’t be without you, whatever you want it to be.

Wei WuXian, "If I don't go, how am I supposed to leave? Are you gonna carry me on your back or something?" "..." Lan WangJi looked at him in silence. Wei WuXian's smile froze on his face, just as a foreboding feeling crossed his mind.

Watching wild landscapes I forget distance and come to the water's edge.

…” Lan WangJi muttered to himself, “Why am I sitting here having such a useless conversation with you?

Lan WangJi looked at him quietly, "Do you behave in such a frivolous way towards everyone?" Wei WuXian thought for a second, "I think so?" Lan WangJi looked at the ground. He only replied a moment later, "How impudent!

Wei WuXian, "So, I'm actually really curious. Just how did you recognize me?" Lan WangJi replied in a calm voice, "I am also really curious as to why your memory is so bad.

Clear waters drift through the immensity of a tall forest. In front of me a huge river mouth receives the long wind. Deep ripples hold white sand and white fish swimming as in a void. I sprawl on a big rock, billows nourishing my humble body. I gargle with water and wash my feet. A fisherman pauses out on the surf. So many fish long for bait. I look only to the east with its lotus leaves.

Great poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.

With heavy eyes, Lan WangJi swept a look at him before turning away. Wei WuXian felt his heart melt. He lay beside his ears and called in a low voice "Lan Er-Gege.

Lan WangJi, "It is nothing out of the ordinary." Wei WuXian, "Well, well, badmouthing me behind my back. Now I've caught you.

The autumn hill gathers the remaining light, A flying bird chases after its companion. The green color is bright And brings me into the moment, like a sunset mist that has no fixed place

I am a collector of hopes and peregrine truths, a shepherd of thoughts, ideas, projects and dreams too important not to be realized. I'm an abstract concept that has no body, no smell, no boundaries, no shape and no color. I am the omnilogos.

I burned incense, swept the earth, and waited for a poem to come... Then I laughed, and climbed the mountain, leaning on my staff. How I'd love to be a master of the blue sky's art: see how many sprigs of snow-white clouds he’s brushed in so far today

This scroll, five hundred years old and more, had been inspired by her favorite, the great Wang Wei, master of landscape art, who had painted the scenes from his own home, where he lived for thirty years before he died. Now behind the palace walls on this winter’s day, where she could see only sky and falling snow, Tzu His gazed upon the green landscapes of continuing spring. One landscape melted into another as slowly she unrolled the scroll, so that she might dwell upon every detail of tree and brook and distant hillside. So did she, in imagination, pass beyond the high walls which enclosed her, and she traveled through a delectable country, beside flowing brooks and spreading lakes, and following the ever-flowing river she crossed over wooden bridges and climbed the stony pathways upon a high mountainside and thence looked down a gorge to see a torrent fed by still higher springs, and breaking into waterfalls as it traveled toward the plains. Down from the mountain again she came, past small villages nestling in pine forests and into the warmer valleys among bamboo groves, and she paused in a poet’s pavilion, and so reached at last the shore where the river lost itself in a bay. There among the reeds a fisherman’s boat rose and fell upon the rising tide. Here the river ended, its horizon the open sea and the misted mountains of infinity. This scroll, Lady Miao had once told her, was the artist’s picture of the human soul, passing through the pleasantest scenes of earth to the last view of the unknown future, far beyond.

lie. She makes a note to call her sisters and discuss the Wheaton collapse. Parents on the fritz. What to do? But long-distance to the East Coast is two dollars a minute, if you don’t have a magic shoe phone. She decides to write them both that weekend. But that weekend is her ceramic sintering conference in Rotterdam, and the letters slip her mind. IN THE FALL, with his wife in the basement studying Latin, Winston Ma, once Ma Sih Hsuin to everyone who knew him, sits under the crumbling mulberry and, with Verdi’s Macbeth blasting out the bedroom window, puts a Smith & Wesson 686 with hardwood grips up to his temple and spreads the workings of his infinite being across the flagstones of the backyard. He leaves no note except a calligraphic copy of Wang Wei’s twelve-hundred-year-old poem left unfurled on parchment across the desk in his study: An old man, I want only peace.

L'impossibile è soltanto una possibilità che non è stata ancora scoperta da nessuno.

Tiago had heard of what some called the 'human database' or 'omnilogos', but nothing could have prepared him for this.

¿Qué es legal y qué no en estos tiempos? Ya sabe lo que dice la gente: "El Partido tiene estrategias y la gente tiene contraestrategias".

Hu sözü, Çinlilerin kendilerinden olmayan, bütün kuzey ve batı kavimlerini tanıtmak için kullandıkları, gayet geniş bir deyiştir. Çin kaynaklarına inemeyenler de bu konuda, O. Franke'nin Çin Tarihi adlı ünlü eserine bakabilirler. Çinlilerin Hu deyimi, eski Yunanlıların yabancı kavimlere, 'İskit' demelerine benzer. Hu deyimi üzerinde en derin araştırmayı, ünlü Çin ansiklopedisti ve ilim adamı Wang Kuo-wei yapmıştır. Bu büyük araştırıcının adı ve araştırmaları, bu kitabımızda sık sık yer almıştır. Kuan t'ang-chilin, 13, 14 adlı eserindeki bu araştırma Kui-fang, Hien-yün, Kun-i gibi, eski Çinlilerin kuzey kavimleri için söyledikleri sözleri, eski Çin klasiklerinden toplayarak bir araya getirmiştir. Fevkalade geniş bir kaynak bilgisine sahip olan bu araştırıcıya göre, Hu sözü başlangıçta Hun veya Hiung-nu kavim adlarının başka bir yazılışı idi. Fakat zamanla Çinliler bu sözü diğer yabancı kavimler için de kullanmaya başlamışlardı. Bu ünlü ilim adamı, bir sonuca giderken daima son derece zengin vesika veriyordu. O. Franke de eserinde, sık sık bu görüşü benimser görünmektedir. Bütün bu görüşleri, öz olarak vermek için bile yeterli yerimiz yoktur. Çinliler, batıyı ve Türkistan'ı, oldukça geç çağlarda tanıdılar. Çinliler batıyı tanıdıktan sonra, her iki Türkistan halkına da, Hu demeye başlamışlardı. Bu deyimler az sonra, daha da gelişeceklerdi. Çinliler Türkistan şehir halkına Hsi-hu yani Batı Hunları demek yolu ile onları, çevrelerindeki diğer yabancılardan da ayırmak istemişlerdi. Yukarıda adı geçen Wang Kouwei, bunları bol miktarda vesika kullanma yolu ile, çok derin olarak incelemiştir. Prof. Eberhard da, Kui-fang, K'un-i, Hun-i Hsien-yün, Hsün-yü gibi Çin'in kuzeyindeki eski kavimler üzerinde durmuştur. Çin tarihlerine yapılan eski Çin şerh ve notlarına göre bu kavimler, Hunların, yani Hiung-nu kavimlerinin ataları idiler. Çin edebiyatında böyle bir inanış, köklü ve yerlidir. Biz de vaktiyle, DTCF Dergisi'nde bu kavimler ile ilgili vesikaları, bir araya getirmiştik. Fakat bu çok eski vesikalardan, kesin sonuçlara gitmek doğru değildir. Bundan dolayı kitabımızda, kavimler coğrafyasını esas aldık. Çin tarihlerinde kuzeybatı kavimleri için Hu sözü kullanıldıkça, bu deyimi Hunlar diye belirledik. Çünkü ana Hun kitlelerinin bulunduğu bölgeler, bu yönde idi. Yoksa Çinlilerin zamanla değişen geniş etnik deyimlerine bakarak ırk ve kavim birlikleri kurmak, elbette ki doğru olamazdı.

Authors and poets who address the human condition, mortality, eternity, and continuity with nature that I recommend are Mary Oliver, Pema Chödrön, Paramahansa Yogananda, Michael Pollan, Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Rumi, Lao-tzu, Khalil Gibran, Hafiz, Walt Whitman, W. S. Merwin, Thích Nhất Hạnh, Diane Ackerman, Alan Watts, Lewis Thomas, Ram Das, Rainer Maria Rilke, Deepak Chopra, and Wang Wei.

The Ming Treasure Fleet sailed to North America: Routes and timelines

Since the number of sailors and soldiers participating in each voyage was of the order of 27,800 or more,

huge amount of food and other supplies would be needed.

What did they eat and why did Zheng He's fleet not suffer the severe threat of sepsis and scurvy

did the fleets led by Christopher Columbus or Ferdinand Magellan (circa 1480–1521)?

Ming sailors not only could store a lot more food on their much bigger ships,

also could carry plenty of fresh water, grow fresh fruits and vegetables, and even raise livestock on board.

Long Gu龙骨or Dragon Bone (like a keel) to minimise the damage caused by grounding

A hotly debated topic

the extent of the epic voyages of the Ming Treasure Fleet led by Zheng

Gavin Menzies’ first book, 1421: The Year China Discovered the World, in which he claimed that the Chinese Admiral Zheng

Gavin Menzies’ first book, 1421: The Year China Discovered the World,

எதிலும் முனைப்பின்றிச் சோம்பலாய் இருக்கிறேன். தன்னைத் தானே பார்த்துக்கொள்ளட்டுமென விட்டுவிட்டேன் உலகத்தை. பத்து நாட்களுக்கான அரிசி என் பையில் இருக்கிறது. கணப்பருகில் ஒரு கட்டுச் சுள்ளிகள். எதற்குத் தொணதொணப்பு மாயையையும் ஞானத்தையும் பற்றி? கூரையில் வீழும் இரவுநேர மழையைச் செவிமடுத்தபடி வசதியாக அமர்ந்திருக்கிறேன், கால்கள் இரண்டையும் நன்கு நீட்டி

Çin'in en eski hanedanları Hsia (M.Ö. 21-17. yüzyıl), Şang (M.Ö. 17-11. yüzyıl) ve Cou (M.Ö. 1027-256) hanedanlarıdır. M.Ö. 481-256 arası Çin tarihinde "Savaşçı Devletler Çağı" olarak adlandırılır. 14 derebeyliğin sürekli olarak çekiştiği bu çağın sonunda Çin hanedanı duruma hâkim olur. M.Ö. 206-M.S. 220 arasında ise Çin, Han hanedanı tarafından yönetilmiştir. İlk hanedanlardan beri Çin kültüründe Tibet ve Türk etkisi bazı bilginlerce kabul edilmiştir. M.Ö. 1027-256 arasında hüküm süren Cou hanedanının Türk asıllı olduğu ise bilginler arasında yaygın bir görüştür. Coulara "batı topraklılar" adı verilmesi, bu hanedan döneminde "hayvancılık bakanlığı" kurulması, ordunun onlar, yüzler, binler diye ayrılması ve bir tür tımar sistemi oluşturulması, önceki hanedanlarda bulunmayan gök inancı ve hükümdarın "göğün (Tanrının) oğlu" kabul edilmesi, Couları bozkır kavimlerine bağlayan özellikler sayılmaktadır (Kafesoğlu 1996: 56; İzgi 2002: 431-432). Savaşçı Devletler Çağı'nda bozkır kavimlerinin tesiri Çin üzerinde kuvvetle hissedilir. Çin hanedanı M.Ö. 5. yüzyıl ortalarında Türklerin tesiriyle savaş arabalarından atlı birlik düzenine geçer (Ögel 1981: 58). M.Ö. 307'de, Kuzey Çin'deki Cao devletinde giyim ve silâh reformu da yapılır; Hun elbiseleri giyilir; at üstünde yay çeken askerler orduya kaydedilir (Ögel 1981: 98-99). Çinli tarihçi Wang Kuo-wei'nin araştırmasına göre giyim reformu yapılırken Çin elbiselerinin birçok bölümleri ile küçük parçalarının adları da yabancı kavimlerden alınmıştı." (Ögel 1981: 104). Böylece "Çinlilerin eskiden beri giydikleri uzun elbiseler, yerlerini tokalı kısa ceketlere" bırakmış, at için uygun olan pantolon ve ayakkabı yerine de çizme yayılmaya başlamıştı. Bunlarla birlikte "Hunların süs eşyaları ile madenden yapılmış silâh ve donanım eşyaları da Çin'e gelmiş ve yayılmışlardı." (Ögel 1981: 64-65). Cao hükümdarı Wu-ling kuzey sınırlarında, sonradan Çin seddini oluşturacak uzun duvarlar da yaptırmıştı. Sınırda kurdurduğu pazarlarda bozkır kavimleri, Çinlilerle alış veriş yapıyorlar, onlara at satıyorlardı.

Song and the lyric poem came first. Prose was invented centuries later. In Israel, Greece, and China came the primal, model lyrics for two and a half millennia. Read the biblical Song of Songs in Hebrew, Sappho in Greek, and Wang Wei in Chinese and be deeply civilized. You will know the passions, tragedy, spirit, politic, philosophy, and beauty that have commanded our solitary rooms and public spaces. I emphasize solitary, because the lyric, unlike theater and sport, is an intimate dialogue between maker and reader. From the Jews we have their two bibles of wisdom poetry, from the Chinese we have thousands of ancient nightingales whose song is calm ecstasy, and from the Greeks we have major and minor names and wondrous poems. However, because of bigotry, most of Greek poetry, especially Sappho, was by religious decree destroyed from the Fall of the Roman Empire to the Renaissance. So apart from one complete ode, we read Sappho in fragments. Yet there survive fragrant hills for lovers and dark and luminous mountains for metaphysicians. Most of ancient Greek lyric poetry is contained in this volume. Do not despair about loss. You are lucky if you can spend your life reading and rereading the individual poets. They shine. If technology or return to legal digs in Egypt and Syria are to reveal a library of buried papyri of Greek lyrics equivalent to the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Gnostic Nag Hammadi Library, we should be able to keep singing and dancing for ten moons straight. For now, we have the song, human comedy, political outrage, and personal cry for centuries of good reading.

Chinese learning and Western learning are bound together. One’s prosperity benefits the other. Also, one’s decline harms the other. Once the trend of exchanging what one has for what one has not has begun, they gain from each other. Moreover, as we are living in today’s world and teaching today’s knowledge, Chinese learning cannot flourish if Western learning does not prosper, and vice versa.

Inside the Great Wall Sheraton Hotel, amber and crystal lights cascaded down seven stories to an atrium. Between two giant columns, glass elevators were rising like bright lanterns toward the ceiling. On the marble floor cool as a mirror, a jazz band was playing. Casually dressed tourists and businessmen in dark suits sipped cocktails in lounge chairs.

Chinese prosody is largely concerned with the number of characters per line and the arrangement of tones - both of which are untranslatable. But translators tend to rush in where wise men never, tread, and often may be seen attempting to nurture Chinese rhyme patterns in the hostile environment of Western language.

Autumn Psalm A full year passed (the seasons keep me honest) since I last noticed this same commotion. Who knew God was an abstract expressionist? I’m asking myself—the very question I asked last year, staring out at this array of racing colors, then set in motion by the chance invasion of a Steller’s jay. Is this what people mean by speed of light? My usually levelheaded mulberry tree hurling arrows everywhere in sight— its bow: the out-of-control Virginia creeper my friends say I should do something about, whose vermilion went at least a full shade deeper at the provocation of the upstart blue, the leaves (half green, half gold) suddenly hyper in savage competition with that red and blue— tohubohu returned, in living color. Kandinsky: where were you when I needed you? My attempted poem would lie fallow a year; I was so busy focusing on the desert’s stinginess with everything but rumor. No place even for the spectrum’s introverts— rose, olive, gray—no pigment at all— and certainly no room for shameless braggarts like the ones that barge in here every fall and make me feel like an unredeemed failure even more emphatically than usual. And here they are again, their fleet allure still more urgent this time—the desert’s gone; I’m through with it, want something fuller— why shouldn’t a person have a little fun, some utterly unnecessary extravagance? Which was—at least I think it was—God’s plan when He set up (such things are never left to chance) that one split-second assignation with genuine, no-kidding-around omnipotence what, for lack of better words, I’m calling vision. You breathe in, and, for once, there’s something there. Just when you thought you’d learned some resignation, there’s real resistance in the nearby air until the entire universe is swayed. Even that desert of yours isn’t quite so bare and God’s not nonexistent; He’s just been waylaid by a host of what no one could’ve foreseen. He’s got plans for you: this red-gold-green parade is actually a fairly detailed outline. David never needed one, but he’s long dead and God could use a little recognition. He promises. It won’t go to His head and if you praise Him properly (an autumn psalm! Why didn’t I think of that?) you’ll have it made. But while it’s true that my Virginia creeper praises Him, its palms and fingers crimson with applause, that the local breeze is weaving Him a diadem, inspecting my tree’s uncut gold for flaws, I came to talk about the way that violet-blue sprang the greens and reds and yellows into action: actual motion. I swear it’s true though I’m not sure I ever took it in. Now I’d be prepared, if some magician flew into my field of vision, to realign that dazzle out my window yet again. It’s not likely, but I’m keeping my eyes open though I still wouldn’t be able to explain precisely what happened to these vines, these trees. It isn’t available in my tradition. For this, I would have to be Chinese, Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain, autumn rain converging on the trees, a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine, washerwomen heading home for the day, my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready. Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through with gold on golden leaves. Wang Wei’s so giddy he’s calling back the dead: Li Bai! Du Fu! Guys! You’ve got to see this—autumn sun! They’re suddenly hell-bent on learning Hebrew in order to get inside the celebration, which explains how they wound up where they are in my university library’s squashed domain. Poor guys, it was Hebrew they were looking for, but they ended up across the aisle from Yiddish— some Library of Congress cataloger’s sense of humor: the world’s calmest characters and its most skittish squinting at each other, head to head, all silently intoning some version of kaddish. Part 1

Autumn Psalm To understand a fraction of what they mean. The writings in the world’s most spoken language across from one that can barely get a minyan. Sick of lanzmen, the yidden are trying to engage the guys across the aisle in some conversation: How, for example, do you squeeze an image into so few words, respectfully asks Glatstein. Wang Wei, at first, doesn’t understand the problem but then he shrugs his shoulders, mumbles Zen ... but, please, I, myself, overheard a poem, in the autumn rain, once, on a mountain. How do you do it? I believe it’s called a psalm? Glatstein’s cronies all crack up in unison. Okay, groise macher, give him an answer. But Glatstein dons his yarmulke (who knew he had one?) and starts the introduction to the morning prayer, Pisukei di zimrah, psalm by psalm. Wang Wei is spellbound, the stacks’ stale air suddenly a veritable balm and I’m so touched by these amazing goings-on that I’ve forgotten all about the autumn staring straight at me: still alive, still golden. What’s gold, anyway, compared to poetry? a trick of chlorophyll, a trick of sun. True. It was something, my changing tree with its perfect complement: a crimson vine, both thrown into panic by a Steller’s jay, but it’s hard to shake the habit of digression. Wandering has always been my people’s way whether we’re in a desert or narration. It’s too late to emulate Wang Wei and his solitary years on that one mountain though I’d love to say what I set out to say just once. Next autumn, maybe. What’s the occasion? Glatstein will shout over to me from the bookcase (that is, if he’s paying any attention) and, finally, I’ll look him in the face. Quick. Out the window, Yankev. It’s here again. Part 2

Da polvere di stelle a polvere di stelle.