Best 1556 quotes in «bird quotes» category

Don't let someone keep putting out the flame God keeps re-lighting, we all have a purpose. As a wing to a bird. As wind that goes the destiny over the sea.

Eagle's flight of loneliness soars so high Around its sigh, no more alone the sky Other birds remain away, clouds pass by Between shrouds of life and haze sun rays die

Era uma vez um pássaro. Adornado com um par de asas perfeitas e plumas reluzentes, coloridas e maravilhosas. Enfim, um animal feito para voar livre e solto no céu, e alegrar quem o observasse. Um dia, uma mulher viu o pássaro e apaixonou-se por ele. Ficou a olhar o seu voo com a boca aberta de espanto, o coração batendo mais rapidamente, os olhos brilhando de emoção. Convidou-o para voar com ela, e os dois viajaram pelo céu em completa harmonia. Ela admirava, venerava, celebrava o pássaro. Mas então pensou: talvez ele queira conhecer algumas montanhas distantes! E a mulher sentiu medo. Medo de nunca mais sentir aquilo com outro pássaro. E sentiu inveja, inveja da capacidade de voar do pássaro. E sentiu-se sozinha. E pensou: “vou montar uma armadilha. Da próxima vez que o pássaro surgir, ele não partirá mais.” O pássaro, que também estava apaixonado, voltou no dia seguinte, caiu na armadilha, e foi preso na gaiola. Todos os dias ela olhava o pássaro. Ali estava o objecto da sua paixão, e ela mostrava-o ás suas amigas, que comentavam: “Mas tu és uma pessoa que tem tudo.” Entretanto, uma estranha transformação começou a processar-se: como tinha o pássaro, e já não precisava de o conquistar, foi perdendo o interesse. O pássaro sem puder voar e exprimir o sentido da sua vida, foi definhando, perdendo o brilho, ficou feio – e a mulher já não lhe prestava atenção, apenas prestava atenção á maneira como o alimentava e como cuidava da sua gaiola. Um belo dia o pássaro morreu. Ela ficou profundamente triste, e passava a vida a pensar nele. Mas não se lembrava da gaiola, recordava apenas o dia em que o vira pela primeira vez, voando contente entre as nuvens. Se ela se observasse a si mesma, descobriria que aquilo que a emocionava tanto no pássaro era a sua liberdade, a energia das asas em movimento, não o seu corpo físico. Sem o pássaro a sua vida também perdeu o sentido, e a morte veio bater á sua porta. “Por que vieste?” perguntou á morte. “Para que possas voar de novo com ele nos céus”, respondeu a morte. “Se o tivesses deixado partir e voltar sempre, amá-lo-ias e admirá-lo-ias ainda mais; porém, agora precisas de mim para puderes encontrá-lo de novo.

Featherweight by Suzy Kassem One evening, I sat by the ocean and questioned the moon about my destiny. I revealed to it that I was beginning to feel smaller compared to others, Because the more secrets of the universe I would unlock, The smaller in size I became. I didn't understand why I wasn't feeling larger instead of smaller. I thought that seeking Truth was what was required of us all – To show us the way, not to make us feel lost, Up against the odds, In a devilish game partitioned by An invisible wall. Then the next morning, A bird appeared at my window, just as the sun began Spreading its yolk over the horizon. It remained perched for a long time, Gazing at me intently, to make sure I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Then its words gently echoed throughout my mind, Telling me: 'The world you are in – Is the true hell. The journey to Truth itself Is what quickens the heart to become lighter. The lighter the heart, the purer it is. The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes. And the heavier the heart, The more chained to this hell It will remain.' And just like that, it flew off towards the sun, Leaving behind a tiny feather. So I picked it up, And fastened it to a toothpick, To dip into ink And write my name.

Fame is a bird flying in a wind tunnel.

Every bird has a style and each style has its own fate, just as it is in humans!

Feeding birds means feeding yourself! Birds are part of nature and feeding nature is nothing but feeding yourself!

Her voice is filled with distant sonorities, like reverberations in a cave: now you are at the place of annihilation, now you are at the place of annihilation. And she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit.’ Can a bird sing only the song it knows or can it learn a new song?’ She draws her long, sharp fingernail across the bars of the cage in which her pet lark sings, striking a plangent twang like that of the plucked heartstrings of a woman of metal. Her hair falls down like tears.

Ghost bird, do you love me?" he whispered once in the dark, before he left for hs expedition training, even though he was the ghost. "Ghost bird, do you need me?" I loved him, but I didn't need him, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be. A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.

Grandpa stopped speaking the day he killed my brother, John.

He had his eyes closed and rocked himself so much that everyone thought he would soon crash to the ground. And then it happened. He crashed to the ground. Surprised, he lay on the ground on his side, not sure what had happened, looking around. Next he jumped up and listened to Matica’s singing again, starting to rock himself once more. His eyes closed slowly, his beak opened. And then he crashed to the ground a second time. This time he kept lying down, spreading his free wing up into the air and waving it to the tune of the melody. Strange sounds came out of his beak. It was a grunt but more than a grunt, as if he was really enjoying himself, as if he would follow Matica’s words and would sing or hum as well.

I am Cinna's bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself, but to no end. Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick's eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to pain. When I am adrift and unable to navigate, that's when they come. The dead. The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift them. The ones I hated have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again. Dragging me beneath the surface. The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she'll be lost as well. "Prim, let go!" And finally she does.

Humans have better wings than birds: Human mind is a perfect wing and with this wing we can fly to some farthermost places no bird can ever dream! Yes, mind is a wing; and when it comes to flying man is the most sophisticated bird on earth!

I adore the sky wearing rainbow shawl of love for the birds so that they could fly free in warmth after the storm

I am a waning bird encased in a glass sphere; I cannot see my prison, and my cries no one can hear.

How it hurts to see you Achingly beyond my craving touch! Perhaps, that's the agony Of a bird with a broken wing The world seemingly at her feet Yet not; And nary a song to sing

I ain't never seen a creature like that before, she says. He's so smart, he's- More, like a person than a bird? I says. Yeah, she says. That's it. Whatever you do, I says, don't tell him that. I'll never hear the end of it.

I am not a bird or a symbol. I am a woman burning.

If a bird settled on only walking on its two feet, it would never fly and achieve its highest potential.

I don't mind taking orders from them as has the right to give them," she said, "but take orders from that ridiculous bird I will not.

If a bird believes it is an eagle long enough, it will eventually end up soaring like one.

If a bird does not bring out all of the songs on its heart, all its symphonies die inside.

If a bird has one wing it cannot fly, no matter how strong it is.

If a bird is caged, expect all its songs to be songs of freedom.

If birds sing without worrying about who is listening to them, and monkeys dance without worrying about who is watching them, and hyenas laugh without worrying about who is mocking them, then you too must do what you do best without worrying about who is ridiculing you.

If birds did not believe in their ability to fly, the sky would be empty.

If God wanted the sky to be empty, He would not have given birds wings to fly.

If God wanted the woods to be quiet, He would not have given birds songs to sing.

If you love a bird don't hold it too tightly or you'll soon be nursing a broken heart.

If you feed a bird, you don't have to force it to come to you.

If I were a flower, humming bird would be my favourite bee And If I were blind, the light of darkness I'd love to see

If you look at the picture of a beautiful bird eating a little fish, you will see two victims there: Fish is already a victim; but the bird is also a victim because to survive, it has to be a killer; it is forced to be a murderer!

I love the freedom of my wings. I love the empty space above the ground. I rejoice in my freedom. Freedom is my religion. Peace is my God. Love is my worship.

If you throw a bird off a cliff, you are helping it find its wings.

If you turn the imagination loose like a hunting dog, it will often return with the bird in its mouth.' (from "The Front and the Back Parts of the House", 1991)

If you want to know how good a tree is, examine how many birds flock to feed off of its fruit.

I knew I was a grain of sand in the vast desert that never ended and he was a sparkling star in the sky. I was a fish who couldn’t breathe in air and had to stay in dark waters forever while he was a majestic bird who soared so high that he barely touched the ground. I did not deserve him. I could only watch him from down here and wish, wish that he could come here someday. That he could know that I existed. But for that, he had to fall. He had to drop to the ground but I could not let that happen. And then I thought, birds are meant to fly and stars are meant to shine and if someone takes it away from them, they can't be the same anymore. So, I just prayed that his wings never fail him, that the star never explodes. And I was at peace.

In a street without any trees, birds represent the trees in the name of nature!

I'm trying to keep you safe." Safe as a porcelain bowl wrapped in cotton linen and boxed up. It would be a lie to say she didn't want to feel safe, or that Nolan's worry didn't leave her feeling warm and even a bit precious. But it also left her feeling trapped, like an ornamental bird kept in a cage, its wings clipped.

In alien lands I keep the body Of ancient native rites and things: I gladly free a little birdie At celebration of the spring. I'm now free for consolation, And thankful to almighty Lord: At least, to one of his creations I've given freedom in this world!

Instead of the birds of the sky and beast of the field, the gods were more than men because Man needed them to be, for what could the world be if Man were the best of all creatures?

Independence is a feeling a bird has when released from the cage....a feeling child has when he or she learns to walk....a feeling a youngster has when he or she receives the first pay....a feeling that a woman of conservative Muslim family has when she removes her 'burqa'....a feeling the soul has when liberated!!!

It is as simple as that. Birds fly because they have wings and so when you can’t grow the wings, you can’t be called a bird. Leaders make impacts because they create new ideas and so if you can’t think of any new innovative ideas, you can’t be a leader.

It is a bird’s imagination, not its wings, that determines how high it can fly.

I wish I were a bird. I’d fly all the way up to the clouds and look down on this place, and then I’d go far away and never come back.

It is easier to separate a bird from its worms than from its songs.

It's a rare thing these days, most people don't have time to stop, to allow themselves to be moulded and shaped by the Creation. A feather falls from a bird and starts its journey alone; once it was attached, part of the whole; then it becomes an uncomplaining hobo, drifting with no agenda, changed by its separation-who knows where it ends up or what it becomes?

It seemed to Whish that any potential crack was worth trying to open,” wrote the scientists. “Even a person’s face was not sacrosanct. He would fly to the face and clutch hole on the nose arch. He would then hang upside down and peer into the nostrils.

It was as if someone had left the bird there as a kind of telegram of feathers, oily feathers that looked like they’d struggled, shuttered a little before letting go into flight forever.

I've changed my mind. I don't want to be a squirrel any more. I'd rather be a bird!