මට දෙන්න ඔය තරු එළියතුරුපත් මත අතුරන්නනිම්නයක වැතිර සිටහමන සුළඟට කන් දෙන්න

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me;Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;Therefore Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths allBolted against me.Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers,Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentenceWorse than Abiram's.Him the vindictive rod of angry JusticeSent quick and howling to the centre headlong;I, fed with judgement, in a fleshy tomb, amBuried above ground.

and everybody was happy that uncle lee was able to get that scholarship even though you wondered when you could do quadratic equations in your head why you had a basketball scholarship but you always knew that you had to take what they were giving since that was all you were going to get but you never fooled yourself about either the taking or the giving or the needing or the having you just sort of said to yourself I'll have to see what is being offered

ඔහුගේ උදෑසන සුබ පැතුමමඟ හැරුණු සාගරයඋණ්ඩයකින් රිදුම් ලදසතෙකු සේරළ නඟා දඟලයි

Bezgove ure"To je stari bezeg za hišo. To so bezgove ure.Grozljivo zelena tesnoba listov.Črnikasta barva jagod. Grenki bezgov čas pred nevihto. Pod zidom vetje kopriv.Nepokošena trava.Za zidom soba.Preležani duh samskih stricev.Votlo bezgovo steblo nedelje.Poobedna tihota.Rdečkasti peclji jagod.Njihov plehki, pusti okusv bezgovem spancu.Sladke sline zorijov medlečih ustih dečkov,ki slonijo ob bezgovih bokih hiš.

Poetry rhymes, a song our souls need to nourish upon. Poetry is a drum, a sound our bodies wish to have. Poetry is organized, a reading our eyes wish to view. Poetry is refined, a structure our moral selves seek. Poetry is civil, instigating the world to remain sane. Poetry is not ordinary, but it needs the ordinary eyes to continue to be the interesting art form of expression. Poetry is like a child communicating, who later grows to be an adult communicating in prose.

Το να αντέξεις την κόλαση θα εξαρτηθεί κατα πολύ απο τον παράδεισο που έχεις γνωρίσει...

অবনী বাড়ি আছো?দুয়ার এঁটে ঘুমিয়ে আছে পাড়াকেবল শুনি রাতের কড়ানাড়া‘অবনী বাড়ি আছো?

Malam ini, ia ingin sekali tengadah ke langit gelap penuh bintang di dalam hutan itu. Ia ingin malam ini bulan hanya berbentuk sabit dan tak banyak lolongan hewan agar ia bisa menatap langit sendiri saja sambil menangis dan tak ada satupun orang yang menelponnya.Ia tidak ingin menulis kesedihannya di twitter, mencaci mengamuk menggangu follower-nya di dunia maya. Ia hanya ingin menangis lirih saja sambil tengadah ke langit gelap penuh bintang dalam keheningan hutan malam ini.

මගේ හිත පිරිනිවිල යනවකෙත්වතු, උයන් දකිද්දීහොඳයි නරකයි දෙයක් නෑඅවබෝධයයි වටින්නේ

Sometimes when I'm aloneI Cry, Cause I am on my own.The tears I cry are bitter and warm.They flow with life but take no formI Cry because my heart is torn.I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friend, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on.The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.Then to stop and see what makes one cry, so painful and sad. And sometimes...I Cry and no one cares about why.

Κάτω ἀπ᾿ τὰ ροῦχα μου δὲ χτυπᾶ πιὰ ἡ παιδική μου καρδιὰΛησμόνησα τὴν ἀγάπη πού ῾ναι μόνο ἀγάπη

هيَ السِّحْـرُ إلا أنّ للسّحْرِ رُقْيةًوإنِّيَ لا أَلقَـى لهَا الدّهْـرَ رَاقيَا

In writing I try to pare down the descriptive bits. If I feel that I could say something in as few words as possible, then I would rather do it than to go on padding. One should describe sufficiently to give the reader a sense of what one feels, but not at the same time overwhelm the reader in any way. For example, I feel that if you use lots of adjectives they have a mutually cancelling effect. If you can describe a scene well enough, without having to use far too many words, I would rather do so.

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O, well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O, well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.