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The Wanderer's Curse

I have the wanderer's curse upon me:
I will never go home,
For there is no home I have to go to,
Nor is the dust of the road my bed.
I claim not the sky for a roof nor
The sun for a lamp,
Yet the moon is my compass
And the stars my fellow-travellers.
I possess but rags and clogs and begging-bowl
And a mendicant's silvered tongue
My riches are the languages of the world
My legacy the memories of men.