_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Little Fly, Thy summer's play If thought is life My thoughtless hand And strength & breath, Has brush'd away. And the want Of thought is death, Am not I A fly like thee? Then am I Or art not thou A happy fly A man like me? If I live Or if I die. For I dance And drink & sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. -William Blake, "The Fly"
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
,__, | |
(oo)\| |___
(__)\| | )\_
| |_w | \
| | ||
chown --from=:grupoX :novogrupo nomedoficheiro