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Journal d'un nomade

Journal d'un nomade

Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever - transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing "Home, Sweet Home" in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. (O. Henry)

The End

رأيت الفتى شبّ حتى انتهى

وما زال يفنى إلى أنْ همدْ

كمصباح ليلٍ بدا يستنير

ثم تناقص حتى خمدْ

أبوالعلاء المعرّي

I saw a young man growing up to the end

Steadily ageing until he reached the dead's land

Like a night candle that glows then collapses like a castle of sand

Abu'laalaa Al-Maarri

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