Further I say, and further will maintain Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood--Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, Even from the
tongueless caverns of the earth To me for justice and rough chastisement.
Given the looped form of the installation, Laxe is condemned to dance forever, unable to access his story's end, when the sight of a DVD player's screen saver jolts him out of his
tongueless stupor and he refuses the demand that he perform, fleeing to an uncertain fate in the desert.
Cultivator classifications up to the early 1900s included single- and double-shovel cultivators, one-horse cultivators, 5-and 9-tooth cultivators, straddle-row cultivators, walking, tongue and
tongueless, riding, combined , single-row, double-row and surface cultivators.
His was the gentle spirit of the woods, The genius of the
tongueless mysteries Eternally that dwell within the trees, The flowers, the grasses, and the bursting buds: A member of their secret brotherhoods, He caught the everlasting sympathies Of all the lute-lipped leaves.
The Fall of the Imam is an intentionally deconstructive narrative that subverts the logic of realism and this is El Saadawi's means of challenging and demolishing a "reality" she finds cruel and unfair to women: the
tongueless yet "speaking" Bint Allah's becomes the mouthpiece of all those being stoned to death and silenced figuratively and physically.
The sound of forest waters in the night, the rustling of cool corn-blades in the dark, the goat-cries of a boy into the wind, the pounding of great wheels upon a rail, the sound of quiet casual voices at a country station in the night, and the thorn of delight, the
tongueless cry of ecstasy that trembles on the lips of the country kid as he lies awake for the first time in the night in the top berth of a Pullman car while the great wheels pound beneath him toward the city....
Like the Irish criminal, Barton gradually senses the treacherousness of writing-confession and realizes that the corollary of the impossibility of rendering authentic her narrative has been the inescapable association of her story with Friday, the
tongueless ex-servant of Cruso.
Where freedom freely strolls in fields yielding not to the rule of hardened heart, Prefers to be poor to being a
tongueless tool, Where people love orphans more than their own children, Kindly tell me where it is: I want to meet those brothers.