I need a poem for resitation.could anyone heip me?
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Let's be a WillowLet’s be a bud and smile at dawn;
Let’s be a spring and gush from a stone;
Let’s be cloud and rain over the world;
Let’s be a willow and dance in drizzling rain;
Let’s be dew and kiss the face of acacia;
Let’s be a melody and wind in a desert;
Let’s be love and make lovers frenzied;
Let’s be a kindness sun and shine forever. By Banafsheh Ghafel
plz mark as the best!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Let’s be a spring and gush from a stone;
Let’s be cloud and rain over the world;
Let’s be a willow and dance in drizzling rain;
Let’s be dew and kiss the face of acacia;
Let’s be a melody and wind in a desert;
Let’s be love and make lovers frenzied;
Let’s be a kindness sun and shine forever. By Banafsheh Ghafel
plz mark as the best!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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1
He did not fall then, blind upon a road,nor did his lifelong palsy disappear.
He heard no voice, save the familiar, ceaseless, self-interrogation of the sore perplexed.
The kettle steamed and whistled.
A heavy truck downshifted near the square. He heard a child calling, and heard a mourning dove intone its one dull call.
For all of that, his wits remained quite dim. He breathed and spoke the words he read.
If what had been long dead then came alive, that resurrection was by all appearances metaphorical. The miracle arrived without display.
He held a book, and as he read he found the very thing he’d sought. Just that.
A life with little hurt but one, the lucky gift of a raveled book, a kettle slow to heat, and time enough therefore to lift the book and find in one slight passage the very wish he dared not ask aloud, until, that is, he spoke the words he read.
He heard no voice, save the familiar, ceaseless, self-interrogation of the sore perplexed.
The kettle steamed and whistled.
A heavy truck downshifted near the square. He heard a child calling, and heard a mourning dove intone its one dull call.
For all of that, his wits remained quite dim. He breathed and spoke the words he read.
If what had been long dead then came alive, that resurrection was by all appearances metaphorical. The miracle arrived without display.
He held a book, and as he read he found the very thing he’d sought. Just that.
A life with little hurt but one, the lucky gift of a raveled book, a kettle slow to heat, and time enough therefore to lift the book and find in one slight passage the very wish he dared not ask aloud, until, that is, he spoke the words he read.
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