How to use rivulet in a sentence. Example sentences using rivulet.
Rivulet used in a sentence
How to use Rivulet in a sentence as a noun
How to use rivulet in a sentence.
My Wife Love she is and it is flowing In abundance from her being Like a rivulet of love flowing Unto the land of love to impart The message of love being part Of heavenly garden on earth to rivet Colors of love with herself being And falling pearls song to sing Surging higher and higher on wings Heavenly sky to touch to reach The boundary of loveth to teach Lesson of loveth and fill the breach An angel of love she is from heaven, Hatred falls down before her even Turns to flowing water and runs down, Narendra’s existence is with her, She who being godly lady bears Divine gift of love in each word of her Euphoric and loveth breeze blow When they meet and heartbeats flow Everything around gets glee with glow!!!dont blame me,i was given this world,i did not make it
Suddenly she heard a voice nearby: "Grieve not, you Lord has placed a rivulet below, and shake the trunk of this tree, from which ripe dates will fall. So eat and drink and regain the strength you have lost; and be of good cheer, for what you see is the power of Allah, Who made the dry palm tree regain life, in order to provide food for you." For a while she was comforted by Allah's miracle, because it was a sure sign of her innocence and purity. Then Mary decided to return to the city.......
Quote Examples using Rivulet
The light is derelict- the apathetic smog of January- the kind that lingers ominously like a supernatural presence. It always is the way in Winter, yet somehow this uncanniness and melancholia coalesces with my character, my history. I, by my very nature, am closed off as Winter is. We are both peripheral. We are both detached and incomplete, forever alienated. My door is covered in a percolating twine of ivy leaves, and its dual nature is the frozen expulsion of winter, the repellant, the retorting. We both purge the excess, the abject. My throat is hoarse and scratchy like woollen mittens. Neither of us speak. Clambering agitatedly up the sonorous terrain of road my eyes transfix upon the silhouette of a sheeps' corpse. It was lying solitary in the wilderness as though expelled by Winter'squest to exterminate the weak-hearted, to purge out the excess. I realise nature is crude yet non-judgemental. It does not care or yearn or attach. We can either reside in it or retort against its spontaneity. Its conveyer belt is continuous and envelops my being in a cocoon of obliviousness. Until something drops and absence fractures my spirit. My mouth seizes up. I drop, dilapidated and inconsolable to the earth and wail and kick and scream until my throat is dry and I can't speak. There is no grace in caring, in loving for we lose everything we love. I walked on, the image of this barely distinguishable corpse etched as a noema on my retinae. After seeing so many I once loved deceased, I spent many long hours sitting absently in cemeteries. I liked to hear the birds conversing, filling the fatness of an-ever effusive silent vacuity-questions that were never asked-and never answered. I wondered if I too would be left to decompose in the sodden earth, left to wilt into that from which I came. It made me remember those many years ago when I sat idle in my bedroom watching the clock catatonically- waiting for one minute to merge into the next, eyes split between numbers and lethal concoctions with which I could erase myself. For good. Forever. I shudder. Cold forboding goosebumps snake up my spine and a tiny rivulet of sweat snakes protrusively downwards. Down. I am nothing. I remember planning my death, researching the most successful methods by which one can commit suicide. Repulsed by my own dumpy white flesh I could only purge, dispel the imperfections one by one. I even dispelled my laughter, manic and frivolous, I cut off the oxygen supply and bobbed listless under the surface. Starvation was not enough- with tubes and monitors and bedrest and fortisip and ensure… too many people noticed. They intervened and chained me, ever resilient to their conquest by which I would be re-nourished. My laughter would be sewn back into me, like eyes been stitched to a doll’s face. My fate would not be within MY control. I would belong to them, to society. I needed something more, something concrete. Each moment I am aware of a flutter, a pulse, a sensation. Paranoia whispers sweet nothingness into my ear. My hands quiver ever so ever so slightly and it scares me. My mind hyperventilates. I need to slow down, ingest the silence that rises in a smog around my vessel but I am restless. My hand always seeks a way to elude me, to caress tentatively then tear out tufts of golden hair from an abject bald area on my scalp. I beg her to stop, to go, to leave me one measly moment of peace, a head of glossy unadulterated hair. But the abuse she hurls at me is apparent by the thinning stupor of my once robust mane, the mane I was so frequently told was beautiful and rich and iridescent. Tears fat with loathing slant obliquely down my cheeks, because I just can't be like them. I can't piece together. I can't match up. I long for wholeness; a peace that can amalgamate with this corrosive silence that haunts me. I have so much to do, so little time. I wasted too much of that in the countless cemeteries I sat in, blank and anonymous. Idling time away on my laptop becomes fatal, destructive and turns me inward, with my back to the world. I scrutinize every body that consolidates my own on Facebook and compare the size of my cheeks, the size of my frame, my thighs, my biceps, my abs in tantalizing scrutiny. My own inherent sense of inadequacy mocks me and laughs torrents of vindictiveness in my face. All I see are bones, pinched faces and sinews. Everywhere. Otherwise I see pretentious smiles, piercing eyes that are electric with passion and vigor that says " I am better than YOU." It only starts off the cacophonous screaming and abuse that drowns my voice in a swath of hatred and self-demise. Dumpy. Morose. Invisible. Fat. Unintelligent. The thoughts are persistent, relentless in their quest to de-seat me. I feel weak at their mercy, my once amiable sense of adequacy shatters within my aura of brittle selfhood and I squirm defenseless in the undertones. Numbers flicker evanescently in my mind. I begin to count, numbers upon numbers upon numbers. There is a comfort in them, a sweet solace that is impenetrable. Lists and lists of numbers. Numbers of calories. Numbers of reps. Numbers of grades. Numbers of age. Numbers of weight, of height, of BMI. They are medicinal, prescriptive and so ever descriptive. I spent years colluding with numeracy, with mathematics conjuring a way to exterminate the weakness in me, the faint echo of a sound. I want no sound. Now there is nothing but you, and I. The glass is cracked and I finger it, unscathed by the fact my flesh could be torn apart, gaping and churning out torrents of abject blood. I don’t care. I don’t #!$%@&! care. It is almost as though I am tempting fate, playing with destiny. I’ve done this so many times before, and somehow I cannot stop. I cannot cease to measure myself ostracizing my flaws, scrutinizing my superficial as well as intellectual traits against others. I feel useless, utterly disintersting, disnengaging, inanimate. I am dead. I outstretch a white scarred arm before me and laugh a jeering laugh. It is not a happy laugh. If I didn’t laugh I would cry until my throat would seize up, again. Without this noema I feel dissociated, absent from the jarring voices and patterns around me. I need to be grounded, I need to feel real. I wriggle each finger and count within my mental continuum of consciousness. Two hours until I eat. No. One hundred and nineteen minutes. Panic infuses through my system. I can’t survive so long, so tediously long without it. I long for that venom, that addictive lure that pulls so strongly, that gravitates me towards that which I most passionately hate.Anonymous
The track she now followed was untrammeled, none had ever gone this way before, perhaps, none would ever come this way again. Within a day, following the stream that became a rivulet, that became a trace, that became a patchwork of disconnected pools separated by longer and longer stretches of thirsty sand that sucked the water under it, she was able to outstrip the steep walls of the canyon, eventually emerging into a widening, gently sloped valley that after one final visible oasis, stood as the doorway to the horrors of a vast parched desert of dunes beyond. There, at the last oasis, she stopped and made camp, deciding to seek higher ground in the morning, a promontory from whose height she might scan the horizon for some landmark or destination. She was nervous, afraid that the chains of the previous night’s terrors were not yet loosed and would once again ensnare her. Her fears proved to be within reason, for as she drifted into that other world, again the face of the ancient man appeared, yet not in frustration this time, it was as if he’d discovered her language and so spoke in words that she could understand. At first he spoke slowly, as if laboring from under some great strain, but as the words started flowing with greater ease, he revealed a tale.Anonymous
You have the full moon in your palm and are gently carving parts of it away...you don't like perfection...tonight you want it to be a little less like the perfect circle... The sleepy little rivulet gurgles in its sleep and the tiny waves tickle my feet...I imagine a land of silver and blue...where snowflakes pirouette to the music of 'Always in my heart'. Once the moon is carved to be a little less perfect, I see you gently landing back to the shore where I am waiting for you. The night mist hugs us to sleep in a tiny little tent next to a mellowing a bonfire. ...and all this happens just while I listen to this tune.Anonymous
The rhino started growling when it suddenly came infront of us while crossing the road in the central range . It was only 6 feet away and started scratching and pounding its foot on the ground. Our driver accelerated and it started running behind for 10 ft and spared us. Bfore that we had a puncture near a rivulet. Lot of reasons to call it memorable. From Kaziranga.Anonymous
House Clearing There is a kind of beauty to reclaiming a house from the weeds. We always started early, to do as much digging and pulling before the sun begins to singe the skin. It is methodical. Inch by inch we battle the unwanted plants – such abundance of it – and we win. The land emerges from under the suffocation of a green thorny mess and its tangled roots. It breathes and I inhale its intoxicating sweetness. This is my earth and I cleared it, though at age ten I’m not much taller than the weeds. My mother digs trenches around her coconut trees and for fertilizer we collect the uprooted wilting plants and fallen matter from the trees and throw them in there. “I’d rather be married to these trees,” she would say. She carves a canal between the well and the trees, sweat sliding down her neck, her arms, and we too, my brother and I, work earnestly. It’s hard work. Physical. The thorns cut me and I bleed. Blood fascinates me and I stop to play with it. I dip my finger and I taste. I pour a little water on the cut and watch the blood mix with the water and run down my dusty dirty leg in a little rivulet. I have played this game many times before. The house looks part battered woman part child with chicken pox. The pock-marks inside far outnumber those on the outside. On the first day of house clearing, I had collected the bullet caps from the living room in a bag. I counted over four hundred and was proud of my collection. “When the army guys find you with those, they will arrest you,” teased my brother and mother. I tied up the bag and buried it under the banana trees. Who had fought whom? Who was hiding in our house? Who was on the outside? My brother and I made up our own stories. The heat and the itching get worse and when the work no longer held any pleasure we go to the well and wash up. Sweet water so close to the ocean – is there a greater blessing? The water leaves my body, runs down the freshly dug canal and disappears in to the trenches by the tall handsome coconut trees. Eleven in all. Next comes my favourite part. We enter the shade of the house, sit cross-legged on a mat in the living room, unfurl the rice and breadfruit curry that my mother had prepared before the sun came up that morning and dig in. The breadfruit was not considered food before the war, and even now my mother is embarrassed to give it to us. But to me it is heavenly and I cannot get enough of it. The size of my stomach frustrates me and I eat until it hurts and pass out. The memories of these days of clearing the house have a dreamlike quality. My world was made up of things falling apart. Of disintegration and destruction. And here we are, putting things back together. Pulling back the chaos and creating beautiful order. Nurturing our home and making it whole. My parents, it turns out, are bad pessimists. They are like people who buy stocks just before the next crash. During long lulls in fighting when people return to mend their homes and attempt to reclaim their lives, they stay away. People are so foolish, they would say. They think the war is over. Just wait and see. And we would wait, wherever it was that we found ourselves displaced. Months would pass and my parents would hear stories of returning home from their relatives and friends until one day they say, perhaps it is time to start fixing things up. Once the weed has been cleared we will order new glasses for the windows and fix up the ceiling. We will patch up each bullet hole and and paint the walls fresh. We will empty the well, scrub it clean, light incense and then watch it fill up with the sweetest water you can imagine. And we will move in. Until one day, not long after, the guns and the artillery will sound and we will grab what we can and run in the opposite direction.Anonymous
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