A Quote by Federico Garcia Lorca

Death laid its eggs in the wound — © Federico Garcia Lorca
Death laid its eggs in the wound
The goose that lays golden eggs has been considered a most valuable possession. But even more profitable is the privilege of taking the golden eggs laid by somebody else's goose. The investment bankers and their associates now enjoy that privilege.
Don't count your eggs until the chicken's laid them.
They say that hens do cackle loudest when there is nothing vital in the eggs they have laid.
Eggs Benedict is genius. It's eggs covered in eggs. I mean, come on, that person should be the president.
Now did you know if a stick insect laid it's eggs in a jar of Bovril it will give birth to a litter of twiglets.
Hollandaise, I would like to pour over my head and just rub all over myself. Eggs Benedict is genius. It's eggs covered in eggs.
When you take into public ownership a profitable industry the profits soon disappear. The goose that laid the golden eggs goes broody. State geese are not great layers.
The road is a word, conceived elsewhere and laid across the country in the wound prepared for it: a word made concrete and thrust among us.
Women of child-bearing age steadily run out of eggs by the continuous process of cell death. While reading a copy of the Guardian carefully from cover to cover, a normal woman will have lost on average two eggs - while, typically, a normal man will have made 70,000 new sperm.
Women of child-bearing age steadily run out of eggs by the continuous process of cell death. While reading a copy of the 'Guardian' carefully from cover to cover, a normal woman will have lost on average two eggs - while, typically, a normal man will have made 70,000 new sperm.
It's not that I'm afraid of death, but afraid of the thought of my people laid to rest; They saying there is 6 million ways of death but not even one way to fade the stress.
Death is a fickle hen, and random are her eggs.
The fact is, people who don't have any misfortunes are very irritating to their neighbours. No opportunities for popping in with condolences and new-laid eggs. No visits to the afflicted. No opportunities for the milk of human kindness to flow. Naturally it doesn't.
A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside. This was the way Natasha's wound healed. She thought her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of life - love - was still alive in her. Love awoke, and life awoke.
Love receives its death-wound from aversion, and forgetfulness buries it.
I'll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I'm not crazy about. I'm pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I'm not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I.
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