I will recite a poem

Imdad Haque football player in our mess, his reputation is written with hundreds of wounds on his hands,

feet and face. In the evening, you will see him with bandages on his hands and feet, massaging each knot and bending over in bed. Mess servants are broken bones to cook Lobejan, the whole night just crying and crying. We think that he is crippled for six months, alas, he will not be able to see the ball in the football team. In the morning, I rushed to his room to get news, his bed was empty and the mattress was broken. After the table, small and big bottles of massage, mocking my teeth. In the evening, I looked at the playground and was surprised to see the help of my teacher. Father dribbling the ball with his right foot and pushing it, the broken cell is playing with his thunder. Run Run Run further Run like the wind, hit hard - throw the ball into the goal. Round-round-round, from all around the clamor, the bet of life, the bet of death, all tied up, teams on their feet. Imdad Haque Qazi of goal-goal-goal-moder mess, Anil Aji spoiled the luck of winning with two broken legs. The audience is returning with great cheers, Imdad Haque comes to dig in the mess room. Mess servant is harassed by foot massager, sleepless night is passed by his screams. Early in the morning Daily Khuli read with great joy, Imdad Haque hardly noticed what he played yesterday.
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I will now say a poem

Our little river is meandering and is knee-deep in the month of Baisakh. Cows cross, cars cross, high wires on both sides, sloping wires cross. The sand is fine, there is no mud, on one side the kasban flower is white. Chirping flocks of jackals, the barking of jackals at night. On the other side, the Ambon Talbon runs, under the shadow of the village bamun Para Tari. On the shores, boys and girls fill towels with water and pour them on their bodies. After swimming in the morning and afternoon, they catch small fish after straining the anchal. Dishes are washed with sand, bells are washed, brides wash their clothes and go to housework. In the name of Asadha Badal, the river overflows and runs dry. At high speed, the waves roar, the pucks turn and run in the murky water. On both sides, the rain falls in the forest, the village wakes up to the festival of rain.

#Italy,

the famous country, the canon of poetry, many peaks such as gaya honeysore, music-sudhara ras kari barishan, basant amode amode mana puri nirantara;— Born in that country before Corila took the poet Francesco Petracca; The bridegroom of Bakdevi is the great Yasaswi Sadhu, Kavi-Kul-Dhan, drenched in Rasana Amrit, playing a golden harp. This tiny gem found in the mine of poetry, Kavindra at the foot of the words of the Swamandir: happily accepted by the mother (designated bridegroom) in this instrument. Bharti-pada is a suitable math in India, as a gift to Aji Orpi Ratna.