Lamentation
S
Shlomo ibn Gabirol
0
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Strayed in mid-youth, rouse up, nor sleep, for lo!
The days of youth like clouds of smoke will pass.
Ere evening falls, thou shalt be withered grass,
Though morning saw thee like a lily blow.
Why waste on ancestors a heated breath,
Or note which progeny was Abraham's?
Whether his food be herbs or Bashan rams,
Man, wretched wight, is on his way to death.
Translated by Israel Zangwill
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