There was this one piece where I almost died lying in the burning star.
Mr. Abdaly died, lying on his back in a pool of blood on a Stockholm street, just a few hours before his 29th birthday.
The Sofitel, where 220 died, lies in ruins to this day, its roof tiles torn off and its windows shattered by the force of the waves.
The wealthy died lying on silk sheets, the poor died in cramped rooms, but they all died the same horrible way.
He died lying in the street across the road from the barracks where he served as a Drummer with the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.
I watched the shooting of a scene in which Miss Bergman, supposedly dying, lay on a prison bed of straw.
When it is your time to go and die, lay in a bed as if you're sick, and say "goodbye", and then say "goes to heaven".
The scene shifts to that of a bedside, where a young woman who has died, lies.
At the border passage to Israel, the sick and dying lie on stretchers for hours before the metal gates, seeking admission for treatment that their hospitals cannot provide for lack of medicines or equipment.
Days before he died, Neruda lay bedridden as soldiers ransacked his home.
