Richard Young

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Programming today is a race between software engineers striving to build bigger and better idiot-proof programs, and the Universe trying to produce bigger and better idiots. So far, the Universe is winning.

  • Phone Number *** - **** 7222
  • E-Mailtinygoose931***@******.***
  • Birthday28 July 1956
  • Education -
  • Address کوی نصر No: 7222
  • Cityسیرجان
  • CountryIran

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Knowing is not enough; we must apply! ..

About Richard Young

Richard Young living کوی نصر No: 7222 سیرجان Iran

What is the lure of the South Seas' song
That sings in the hearts of men so long?
What are its languorous, lingerous charms
That it reaches forth like the perfumed arms
Of amorous women to draw men near?
What is the song that rings so clear
Through the leagues of time over seas and lands
To bring men back to the sun-drenched strands?
What is the song that will not be stilled,
What is the longing that can't be killed?
What is the lure of the South Seas' song

Is the song the sighing of winds in palms
As sweet as ballads, as sad as psalms?
Is the song the crooning of silken waves,
The sensuous music that makes men slaves
To remembered joys of those velvet nights
That were stained with passions and mad delights?
Is the song a lyric of rainbow hues,
The gold of suns and the sea's glad blues
Hibiscus blossoms that burn like flame
In the hair of a girl with a flower's name?
What is the lure of the siren song
That sings in the hearts of men so long?

It is more than flowers or lazy seas,
It is more than passions and ecstasies,
It is more than memories of amorous flesh,
It is more than the web of the senses' mesh,
It is more than beauty and less than peace,
It is earth-Nirvana, a sweet surcease
From the clang and clamor of cities' strife,
From the harsh demands of the Northland life,
From the drive and strain of the men who seek
For money and fame and ambition's peak.

The tropic days are like golden sands
That slip through the fingers of careless hands.
The dancing feet of the passing hours
Are muted with music and shod with flowers
While the pulse that stirs in a listless vein
Is lulled to the swoon of a waltzing strain
Time is a flagon of drugged sweet wine
With forgetfulness as an anodyne.

That is the lure of the South Sea's song
That clings in the hearts of men so long.