I have this story from the men of the way,

The poor are blessed, the beggars of the king they say.

An old man went to beg at dawn's first light,

In a mosque he saw, and cried out in sight.

One said, 'This house is not of the people here,

They will not give you anything, it’s just a jest, I fear.'

He asked, 'Who then owns this house, pray tell?'

Who would not give charity to anyone, as well?

He replied, 'Be silent, your words are wrong,

The Lord of this house is our Lord, strong.'

He looked and saw the chandelier and prayer niche,

And with burning heart, he let out a cry, rich.

He said, 'It’s a pity to move beyond this place,

Alas, to be deprived of this door’s embrace.'

I’ve never turned from the path of any street,

Why should I turn from this door, with a defeat?

Here I stretch out my hand to ask, with hope,

For I know, I will not return empty, I cope.

I heard that for a year, a pilgrim did stay,

And like the beggars, he raised his hands to pray.

One night, his life’s path sank into the mud,

His heart, weak, began to throb with a thud.

In the morning, someone took his lamp to light,

He saw the weakness in him, like dawn’s first light.

He spoke in joy, with gladness so profound,

And I, too, found the door of the Most Generous unbound.

The beggar must be patient and bear his plight,

For I’ve never heard of an alchemist in sorrow’s light.

What wealth turns to dust in the darkened earth,

Maybe one day, lead will turn to gold in rebirth.

It’s good to buy gold for a worthy cause,

But better to buy with the memory of a friend’s applause.

If your heart grows weary of your lover’s art,

Another will come to heal your heart’s broken part.

Do not bring bitter joy from a sour face,

Quench it with water, not fire’s embrace.

But if goodness lacks, and has no equal to share,

Do not take the little heartache, it’s unfair.

You can give your heart to one who will care,

For you know you can’t build without him, so rare.