 This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Shogato Kul, Kolkata, India, Bashi, Rabindranath Thakur. Qinu Gualar Goli? Dutala Badir Lohar Gharadeva Ekthala Ghar Pathedharei. Lona Dharadeyalete Maje Maje Dhosegache Bali, Maje Maje Shhetapara Dag, Markin Thaner Marka Ekkhana Chhobi, Shiddhidata Ganesher, Dajjarpare Ata. Ami Chhara Gharetha Ke Ar Ekta Jeeb, Ek Bharate, Sheta Tik Tiki. Tafat Amash Sange Ehi Shudhu Nehitar Anner Abhaap. Bitan Pochistaka Shadagari Apishe Konishtho Keraani. Khete Pae Dagta Ter Bari Chhe Lekhe Poriye. Sheyalda Istisha Ne Jai Shondheta Katia Ashi. Alojala Bhat Daye Bache. Injinet Thasthas Basheer Awaaj Jatrir Basta Tha Kuli Haka Haki. Share Dash Beje Jai. Tarpare Ghare Ese Nirala Ne Chhum Andhakaar. Dhaleshshari Nadi Tire Pishe Der Gram. Tha Dayore Ne Abhaga Shateta Bibaher Chhilo Tik Thak. Lag Na Shubho Ne Shshidh Proman Paa Galo. Shei Lag Ne Ese Chhi Paali Ye Metata Rukhe Pele Ami Tathoi Bache. Gharete Elona Seto Monetar Nitha Asha Jawa. Parane Dhakae Shari Kapale Shidhur. Barsha Ghano Ghor Tramer Kharchabare. Maje Maje Maino Katajai. Golitar Kone Kone Jome Othe Poche Othe. Amer Khoshao Wati. Kathaler Bhuti. Machher Kanka. Mora Berale Chhana. Chhaipash Aro Koto Ki Jai. Chhatar Abostha Khana Jori Manadeva Mainer Moto. Bohu Shidrotar. Apishe Shaj Gopi Kanto Khosai Yer Montajamon. Sharbodai Raso Shikta Thake. Badoler Kalo Chhaya Shatsate Khotta Te Dhukhe. Kale Pada Jantur Moton. Murchai Ashaar. Din Rat Monehai. Kon Admora Jagate Shange. Jano Aaste Preshte Badha Porea Chhi. Golir Morei Thake Kanto Babu. Jadne Patkara Lomba Chul. Bada Bada Chok. Shaukhin Mejaj. Karnet Bajanotar Shok. Maje Maje Shur Jagate Othe. E Golir Bivat Shabatase. Kaka No Gobhirate. Borbala Ado Andhokare. Kaka No Boikale. Chikimiki Aaloe Chhaiai. Khotat Shandhai. Shindhu Parwai Lage Tan. Shamoshto Akase Baje. Anadikale Birahope Dona. Takhani Muhurte Dharapare. E Golita Ghor Miche. Durbisaho Matale Prolapere Moto. Khotat Khabar Paimone. Akbar Batsah Shange. Hori Padukeranir Kono Bhednei. Pasir Korun Dagbe. Chhera Chhata. Rat Chhatra Mile Cholega Chhe. Aak Boikunthet Dike. E Ganje Khane Shotto. Ananta Gotulilakne. Shai Khane Bohichale Dhaleshshari. Dire Tamale Ghano Chhaia. Anginath Je Aache Apekkha Kore. Dhar Parwane DhaGHay Shari Gapale Shindhu. Inde Poem.         , attribute … Librevox lo yin dosha gong jong so yoda. Holland by C.S. Adema van Scheltema. Red in Dutch for Librevox.org by Anna Simon. Holland. What said he klein Holland, met al u velden en flakke wegen, met yu ramsalige aardepel landen, en u vreselijk droefgeestige regen en u lage, goodaardige stranden? But the sea, Holland, where a gai langzaamzuit verschenen, where a gai as a shellpzeit geboren, that sings through your whole land, that every in his soul can hear her. But God said he klein Holland, met yu simple wilgebomen, met al u klein kapplenne plassen, and that pair of flat, easy streams, and your flowers and tammegewassen. But the great is your heaven, Holland, met zain mateloze klaarten, met al zain oneindige kleuren en die veranderende wolken gevaarten, waarmee grote dingen gebeuren. But what said he klein Holland, met yu verlegensweigende mensen, and al u langzame stillen levens, and al u vele denkbeelde gegrenzen, and oh, met nergens ooit iets verhevens. But great is your volk, Holland, verwandt an u heerlijk verleden, dat tussen yu heemle en zeen bleef groejen, en tussen die wisselende eeuigheden sig bereit om opnieu tegaan bloejen. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lobster Quadril from Alice in Wonderland by Louis Carroll in Esperanto is a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, a small town, ṉō māgu bĞilaraāvon esti su prenād le vita est'i Environmentowskaéndsita hots затite nē 1973 lōmey packed l' independence jē jē t'nat nē rāda est'i 10 N년 fii skateboarde estesIa ale a lando kaly la franzoi ju pli longen de anglujo pilafude alfrandzu yo Stone team u jarzoramba borde yen for fee patruyo vii consentas Miry nhe vere o consentas Partopren capture Je me vere! O b 싱tu! Look at the repair and there This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. This recording is in the public domain. . L'opprobre est une lèpre, le crime le d'artre. Soldat qui revenait du boulevard Montmartre, le vin au sang-mêlé jaillit sur aux habits. Chantez, natable en pli l'école militaire, le festin fume, mon train qu'on boit, on roule terre, mangez. Moi je préfère au gloire ton pain bill. Au peuple des faux-bours, je vous ai vu sublime. Aujourd'hui vous avez, c'est agrisé par le crime, plus d'argent dans la poche au coeur moins du fierté. On va chaine au cou, rire et boire à la barrière. Et vive l'empereur et vive le salaire. Mangez. Moi je préfère ton pain noir. Liberté. End of poem, thus we call it isn't a public domain. Je vous salue Marie. By Francis Jam, read in French for the people who start work by foot de bassin. By the little boy who dies near his mother, while children have fun on the ground. And by the wounded birds who don't know how, we are suddenly without blood and blood. By the thirst and hunger and deliriousness, I salute you, Marie. By the beaten children, by the widows who come back, by the lannes who receive feet-to-feet for sale, and by the humiliation of the innocent child. By the vial I sell that we have disguised, by the son in the sea has been insulted. I salute you, Marie. By the old one who, shivering under too much weight, is written, my God. By the misfortune whose arms can't stand on a human love like the cross of the son on Simon of Cyrena. By the horse that fell under the chariot that drags, I salute you, Marie. By the four horizons that crush the world, by all those who are in the flesh to tear themselves apart, by those who are without feet, by those who are without hands, by the disease that we are suffering and that we are suffering, and by the just miscarriage of the murderers, I salute you, Marie. By the mother learning that her son is a warrior, by the bird calling the bird fell from the nest, by the herb that sits in the long pond, by the lost beast, by the given love, and by the man who finds his money, I salute you, Marie. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Jean Lambert The subject of this account had some sweetness, and my hero may have had a plight to the reader. I let go of my feathers with his life, wanting to take to the flight the dreams of his heart. I recognized well my admirable text. In all that I do, I have the triple virtue of being at the faith too short, too long, and too narrow. The poem and the plan, the hero and the fable, all go through, like on a table, a plate cooked on one side while the other is raw. The theater at Cousure was not my business. I ask you a little what kind of job I would do, and in what way I would be surprised when I see to distribute what is in my career standing for twenty years on their old-fashioned thought of the foot of their courier never doubted. My friends now advise me to laugh, to cut under the arch, the cords of my bed and to put it back in the glass to San and La Mouna. But I said that the story existed. There it is. Since in its time and place I could not write it, I will tell it. It will write what it wants. A young muslim was therefore the mani to buy at the bazaar of two slaves per month. One and the other, in its bed, only three times touched. On the fourth day, one and the other Bani, free of touchen and the stock market, left the door open to some new choices. He found himself in the shadow of a little girl. He took her to Kadik, her a rich merchant. An old Greek pirate had found her nice. And as he knew someone of his family, seeing her alone in the past, he had her brick worn out. In San, all his life, he loved the Spanish. This is the enchanta. So good when he left, he gave himself a bag full of pistols. Above the market, a few sweet words, he wanted to drive aboard a building which, for his dear country, left by a good wind. But the poor Spanish, at heart, was injured. She let him do, he did not understand anything. Otherwise, she was beautiful and she liked it. She answered him, Why did you chase me? If I had fun with you, that you did not leave me, did you not have anything in my heart to have taken mine? She went to the port and sat in silence, holding her bag and our walls. But when he felt on this immense sea, the ship moved and the wind blew, the heart defied him and lost hope, she lowered her sail and cried. Then he arrived, six African young men, entered in a bazaar the arms loaded with chains. On the floors of the sea, an old Jewish man went, his beautiful golden fish caught with a knife. The crowd was very angry, the cages were full, and the cherries walking in the sun were shaking. By a double bazaar in the sand, twenty appeared. The woman went up and found the old man. I am blond, she said, and I could maybe sell myself a little more with fake hair, but I would not want to be recognized. Then I saw the face and the eyes. Then, as always, Constance said to Camille, she took her bag and cut her clothes. Sell me now, she said, and for the price we will not talk about it. Thus the poor girl came to take her chain to the bar of a grid and, if the truth was not sacred to me, I would tell you that Hasan Rastanamuna, the Jewish man's slave, recognized this golden head and this sweet night she had hoped that for the price of these words the sky would give it to him. I would tell you especially that Hasan in this affair felt that sooner or later his turn and that the love of himself does not worth the other love. But the chance and what we can do to him often took us that the happiness on earth can only have a night like the glory one day. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .