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Publié le par La vache rose

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Beautiful poem written by Rudyard Kipling.

Furthermore, I highly recommend you discover the french (http://lavacherose.over-blog.com/2015/05/tu-seras-un-homme-mon-fils.html) and the spanish versions (http://lavacheroseespagnole.over-blog.com/2015/08/si.html).

In the french blog 2 versions in slam and one is in french and italian (by I Muvrini for the italian part).

I add to this article some pictures and the full text.

I wouldn't not either miss to add some music, a beautiful song on the same theme " Father and son " by Cat Stevens at the end of the article.

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Some pictures... mother and kid 

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Some pictures... father and kid

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One day my prince will come and my father will smash him

One day my prince will come and my father will smash him

Some pictures... kid in family

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A grandfather has silver in hair and a lot of gold in the heart

A grandfather has silver in hair and a lot of gold in the heart

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Some more pictures

For a mother, even if a kid grow up, he stops as high as her heart
For a mother, even if a kid grow up, he stops as high as her heart

For a mother, even if a kid grow up, he stops as high as her heart

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If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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