وَعَلَى اَلْعَاقِلِ أَنْ يَجْعَلَ اَلنَّاسَ طَبَقَتَيْنِ مُتَبَايِنَتَيْنِ، وَيَلْبَسَ لَهُمْ لِبَاسَيْنِ مُخْتَلِفَيْنِ، فَطَبَقَةٌ مِنْ اَلْعَامَّةِ يَلْبَسُ لَهُمْ لِبَاسَ اِنْقِبَاضٍ وَإِنْجَازٍ وَتَحَفُّظٍ فِي كُلِّ كَلِمَةٍ وَخُطْوَةٍ، وَطَبَقَةٌ مِنْ اَلْخَاصَّةِ يَخْلَعُ عِنْدَهُمْ لِبَاسَ التَّشدّدِ وَيَلْبَسُ لِبَاسَ اَلْأُنْسةِ وَاللُّطْفةِ وَالْبِذْلَةِ وَالْمُفَاوَضَةِ. وَلَا يُدْخِلُ فِي هَذِهِ اَلطَّبَقَةِ إِلَّا وَاحِدًا مِنْ اَلْأَلْفِ وَكُلّهُمْ ذُو فَضْلٍ فِي اَلرَّأْي، وَثِقَةٍ فِي اَلْمَوَدَّةِ، وَأَمَانَةٍ فِي اَلسِّرِّ، وَوَفَاءٍ بِالْإِخَاءِ.
ابنُ المُقَفَّع؛ الأدبُ الصَّغير والأدبُ الكَبِير
الناشر
ابنُ المُقَفَّع؛ الأدبُ الصَّغير والأدبُ الكَبِير
الناشر
مازِلتُ أَقتَطِعُ البَيداءَ مُدَّرِعًا
جُنحَ الظَلامِ وَثَوبُ اللَيلِ مَسبولُ
جُنحَ الظَلامِ وَثَوبُ اللَيلِ مَسبولُ
Forwarded from Rains of Castamere (Ali Talib)
يَا مِثْلَهُ لاجِئاً.. يَا مِثْلَهُ تَعِبَاً..
كُنْ مِثْلَهُ فَارِسَاً كُنْ مِثْلَهُ نَجُدَا..
أَنْكَرْتَ أَربَابَ قَوْمٍ مِنْ صِنَاعَتِهِمْ..
وَرُبَّمَا صَنَعَ الإنْسَانُ مَا عَبَدَا..
وَالكُفْرُ أَشْجَعُ مَا تَأْتِيهِ مِنْ عَمَلٍ..
إِذَا رَأَيْتَ دِيَانَاتِ الوَرَى فَنَدَا..
وَرُبَّ كُفْرٍ دَعَا قَوْمَاً إلى رَشَدٍ..
وَرُبَّ إِيمَانِ قَوْمٍ للضَّلالِ حَدَا..
وَرُبَّمَا أُمَمٍ تَهْوَى أَبَا لَهَبٍ..
لليَوْمِ مَا خَلَعَتْ مِنْ جِيدِهَا المَسَدَا..
#تميم_البرغوثي.. لمن يفهمها.
كُنْ مِثْلَهُ فَارِسَاً كُنْ مِثْلَهُ نَجُدَا..
أَنْكَرْتَ أَربَابَ قَوْمٍ مِنْ صِنَاعَتِهِمْ..
وَرُبَّمَا صَنَعَ الإنْسَانُ مَا عَبَدَا..
وَالكُفْرُ أَشْجَعُ مَا تَأْتِيهِ مِنْ عَمَلٍ..
إِذَا رَأَيْتَ دِيَانَاتِ الوَرَى فَنَدَا..
وَرُبَّ كُفْرٍ دَعَا قَوْمَاً إلى رَشَدٍ..
وَرُبَّ إِيمَانِ قَوْمٍ للضَّلالِ حَدَا..
وَرُبَّمَا أُمَمٍ تَهْوَى أَبَا لَهَبٍ..
لليَوْمِ مَا خَلَعَتْ مِنْ جِيدِهَا المَسَدَا..
#تميم_البرغوثي.. لمن يفهمها.
هُوَ النَّبِيُّ الذي أَفْضَى لِكُلِّ فَتَىً
بِأَنَّ فِيهِ نَبِيَّاً إِنْ هُوَ اْجْتَهَدَا…
بِأَنَّ فِيهِ نَبِيَّاً إِنْ هُوَ اْجْتَهَدَا…
If — by Rudyard Kipling
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!
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!
Forwarded from Rains of Castamere (Ammar Ridha saihood)
Media is too big
VIEW IN TELEGRAM
Dmc 4 intro