The Wind Went 'knock knock'

                “His memory knocked on the walls of my loneliness and I let it in. I was a host who would desperately hold the remembrance of his embrace by hand and offer it a chair to stay. It was loud enough to confuse me, to enchant me, and to motivate my will toward capturing it, the memory of his presence. Unfortunately, his memory knocked again; it was a weak, timid knock as if a goodbye. Leaving me alone between the walls of my emptiness, his memory flew by like a little butterfly; left me alone again.”

                Glory, Metaphor, and The Wind- tapped like a tired man are three different poems that we have been taking for the past two weeks at school. I’ve always appreciated the magic of poetry and the imposing art of literature, but I rarely find a prose or a poem that can honestly grab my full attention and increase my interest with every line it contains. The Wind- tapped like a tired man is certainly one of the most interesting poems that I’ve ever read. The way Emily Dickinson, the poem’s poet, describes the memory of her beloved and the way she feels about it possessed my senses into imagining the scene surrounding the poet. The meanings hidden within every line of every stanza inspired me to realize the significance of memories and the feelings they bring along. The poem also taught me that memories do survive and do keep us company sometimes; even if they never exist in the way matter does, they’ll always have an effect on us.

MojiburRahman

              He was a wise, old man; an unlocked treasure of enlightenment and knowledge. It was apparent that Bangladesh was not the safe haven he'd been wishing for, for he witnessed war in the country of his own birth. Migration might have had helped him find security in the owns of another country, but his heart was chained to the land of which he rose.

             He was a lawyer by name since his certificate survived between the dust of hope and the long roads he navigated. The man had a great memory of history, especially wars. But the memory of twenty-four years away from home echo along with the squeaking of the vehicle's wheels, tremble upon the door's whistle, and bounce off with the emptiness inside. He despised the ignorance growing inside of today's youth; the ignorance that have been implanted as a fraction of our hearts forcing us to forget where to do we belong and replacing our thoughts with ones of their own. He respected everybody regardless of age or race, a candle of hope shined within his soul and his kindness reflected a hidden past of mystery.

              To every action there's an explanation, beneath every boundary awaits an opportunity, beyond every mystery a key is found, and after every hardship there lies strength. It's time we come to believe in ourselves; time to build a generation based on strong beliefs and hope and time to appreciate what we have before it's all gone. MojiburRahman, a great man whom I've known little of, was a symbol of hope. He's one of few humans that have restored my faith in humanity; all mankind would change to the better.