If two of my small eyes are the showcase shelves, then every moment of my little belt, each day, showcased them in a series of showcases, arranged by one of the most valuable shows. If the inner breathing machine of my chest is the biggest warehouse in the world, then there are rows in a row like the product sacks, my childhood sweet days, joyous moments. I can not forget even if I want to forget. On that day, on the day of the little ball, a live photo album and I walked back to my house. Sometimes I used to cry, dragging it on the ground, on the soil of the soil, the leaves of the beans, the yellow mustard flower in the field, the tamarpe lake water, the shapala droplet near the jhal; At the bottom of the mango tree, on the shade of the jam tree, in the cold of the winter, in the fog cloth under the thick grassy tree, filled with clay pots filled with fresh flavors of juice.
The smell of clay brings me to the shade now, in the nostrils of peace, in the southern open window, under the guava tree, with a thick rope made of towel trees. The water of the pond, freshness, the horns, and the magura fish still give me a handful. When I am in the city's brick-stone life, when the frustration of deep frozenness in the air shuts the eyes and shakes the body in a comfortable sofa, then in front of my eyes, the green open field of the horizon, the free sky of the blue sky, the golden rice rice. Let me hear like before, the sound of the flute of the shepherd, the voice of the voice of the voice of the voice, the voice of the Rinijhini chatter in the middle of the ears. As far as the life of Gayan's life goes away and I want to match the life of the city, the more I go back to my peer. My childhood and adolescence led me to the path of basic life. I wound up with modernity and sikarani tanatani, became tired and tired. Again, for the sake of life, beware of surviving the desire to survive on the brick stone, the feet of the clay plucked. Forget the melody, fresh air, bird song, flower swelling, butterfly dance.
