Tagore : Memories
  In the secluded outer suburbs of a western city, the heat of the day monitors an old building that is sloping and unloved. In the building, there is a shadow that is not retreating all the year round, imprisoning the smell of old age. The yellow carpet on the ground is woven on the four sides of the hunter.
  On the dirt road of Baisensen, which stands out from a young tree in the north of the building, the flying dust is like a shawl with a burning sun.
  The sand in front of the building was planted with wheat, gourd and watermelon. In the distance, the sparkling Ganges and the ships that pass by, form a sketch of a charcoal sketch.
  The servant, who wore a silver bracelet, was swaying wheat on the porch with a monotonous little song. The servant Kildari sat by her for a long time, with a secret motive.
  Under the old banyan tree, there is a mouth deep well. The gardener turns the drowning water with the help of the power of the ox. The sound of twisting and twisting sorrows the atmosphere of the noon, but the well water of Ganzi restores the anger of the corn field. .
  In the hot wind, the mango flowers are light as the warm aroma of the gossamer, and the bees gather in the new leaves of the tall banyan tree.
  In the afternoon, the neighbor's girl returned from the city, her thin face was sun-baked and pale, but she still read the famous poet's masterpiece with great interest.
  As a result, the sorrows in the hearts of the great men on the other side of the ocean melted into the faint light of the shadows of the shabby blue bamboo curtains, and dissolved into the scent of moist verbena.
  I remember, like a butterfly flying in the colorful gardens of England, my first youth has also collected rhetoric in foreign languages.