Hungary, 1934. A shoeshine man, perhaps. Certainly someone poor and down-trodden, eking out a living on the street. The famous Hungarian poet of this time, Attila József, wrote in his poem, "Without Hope",

I am as one who comes to rest
by that sad, sandy, sodden shore
and looks around, and undistressed
nods his wise head, and hopes no more.

Source: Fortepan / Hirsch Hugó

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Friday's poetry book of the day is:
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