I heard that a dervish, burning in the fire of poverty and sewing patch upon patch, said to comfort his mind:
‘We are contented with dry bread and a patched robe
For it is easier to bear the load of one’s own trouble
than that of thanks to others.’
Someone said to him: ‘Why sittest thou? A certain man in this town possesses a benevolent nature, is liberal to all, has girded his loins to serve the pious and is ready to comfort every heart. If he becomes aware of thy case, he will consider it an obligation to comfort the mind of a worthy person.’ He replied: ‘Hush! It is better to die of inanition than to plead for one’s necessities before any man.’
It is better to patch clothes and sit in the corner of patience
Than to write petitions for robes to gentlemen.
Verily it is equal to the punishment of hell
To go to paradise as a flunkey to one’s neighbour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem