A Damascene Moon
Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover
On my brow, a rose and a book
For I am the Damascene whose profession is passion
Whose singing turns the herbs green
A Damascene moon travels through my blood
Nightingales . . . and grain . . . and domes
From Damascus, jasmine begins its whiteness
And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent
From Damascus, water begins . . . for wherever
You lean your head, a stream flows
And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings
Over Sham . . . and a poet is a voyager
From Damascus, love begins . . . for our ancestors
Worshipped beauty, they dissolved it, and they melted away
From Damascus, horses begin their journey
And the stirrups are tightened for the great conquest
From Damascus, eternity begins . . . and with her
Languages remain and genealogies are preserved
And Damascus gives Arabism its form
And on its land, epochs materialize
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Damascus Has Grown Feeble
Dragged away,
Run away from her! !
For, i am troubled like the tossing sea which cannot rest;
And, Damascus has grown feeble because,
Terror has seized her.
Glean, dean, wean, clean, lean, mean, bean, Jean;
And like a family without home!
But, who will come and clothe these people?
To and fro by the walls,
To and fro with the bombs,
To and fro with the bullets,
Oh, you who attack Damascus! !
You still trust in your riches but, they will not save you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Five Letters To My Mother
Good morning sweetheart.
Good morning my Saint of a sweetheart.
It has been two year mother
since the boy has sailed
on his mythical journey.
Since he hid within his luggage
the green morning of his homeland
and her stars, and her streams,
and all of her red poppy.
Since he hid in his cloths
bunches of mint and thyme,
and a Damascene Lilac.
*
I am alone.
The smoke of my cigarette is bored,
and even my seat of me is bored
My sorrows are like flocking birds looking for a grain field in season.
I became acquainted with the women of Europe,
I became acquainted with their tired civilization.
I toured India, and I toured China,
I toured the entire oriental world,
and nowhere I found,
a Lady to comb my golden hair.
A Lady that hides for me in her purse a sugar candy.
A lady that dresses me when I am naked,
and lifts me up when I fall.
Mother: I am that boy who sailed,
and still longes to that sugar candy.
So how come or how can I, Mother,
become a father and never grow up.
*
Good morning from Madrid.
How is the 'Fullah'?
I beg you to take care of her,
That baby of a baby.
She was the dearest love to Father.
He spoiled her like his daughter.
He used to invite her to his morning coffee.
He used to feed her and water her,
and cover her with his mercy.
And when he died,
She always dreamt about his return.
She looked for him in the corners of his room.
She asked about his robe,
and asked about his newspaper,
and asked, when the summer came,
about the blue color of his eyes,
so that she can throw within his palms,
her golden coins.
*
I send my best regards
to a house that taught us love and mercy.
To your white flowers,
the best in the neighborhood.
To my bed, to my books,
to all of the kids in the alley.
To all of these walls we covered
with noise from our writings.
To the lazy cat sleeping on the balcony.
To the lilac climbing bush the neighbor's window.
It has been two long years, Mother,
with the face of Damascus being like a bird,
digging within my conscience,
biting at my curtains,
and picking, with a gentle beak, at my fingers.
It has been two years Mother,
since the nights of Damascus,
the odors of Damascus,
the houses of Damascus,
have been inhabiting our imagination.
The pillar lights of her mosques,
have been guiding our sails.
As if the pillars of the Amawi,
have been planted in our hearts.
As if the orchards are still perfuming our conscience.
As if the lights and the rocks,
have all traveled with us.
*
This is September, Mother,
and here is sorrow bringing me his wrapped gifts.
Leaving at my window his tears and his concerns.
This is September, where is Damascus?
Where is Father and his eyes.
Where is the silk of his glances,
and where is the aroma of his coffee.
May God bless his grave.
And where is the vastness of our large house,
and where is its comfort.
And where is the stairwell laughing at the tickles of blooms,
and where is my childhood.
Draggling the tail of the cat,
and eating from the grape vine,
and snipping from the lilac.
**
Damascus, Damascus,
what a poem we wrote within our eyes.
What a pretty child that we crucified.
We kneeled at her feet,
and we melted in her passion,
until, we killed her with love.
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Bladesmith Alchemy
He toils over fire fueled by coke
Forging a fine Damascus blade
Coaxes, cajoles, at last invokes
A sacred fire totem…unafraid
The Bladesmith knows;
Salamanders can pass thru fire
Unburnt/unharmed by such heat
A tempered blade its one desire
Lest, this fine sword be incomplete
Thru blade salamander does pass
Pursued by fiery flames from hell
Thru blinding smoke of sulfur gas
Mission done, he bids “farewell”
Revealed here the secret of 'Damascus Steel'
Perfected by one tiny amphibian's ordeal
(Inspired by Howlin Dervish)
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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By What Authority Saul's Plan For Damascus?
After arresting putting these people in prison;
Saul learned about their Christian friends
in Damascus by getting letters from prisoners?
What fate then did Saul desire for Christ's followers?
'I persecuted to the death the people who followed
this Way. I arrested men and women and threw
them into prison. The High Priest and the whole Council
can prove that I am telling the truth. I received
from them letters written to fellow Jews in Damascus,
so I went there to arrest these people and bring
them back in chains to Jerusalem to be punished.' Acts 22: 4-5.
Split imaging from the poem ‘Transformation Inquisition Saul Into Paul Of Tarsus'.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Damascus
Set up places for yourselves in Damascus,
For my lover is like two small flocks of goats;
And i am ready to market my wares with you all.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Damascus, What Are You Doing to Me?
1
My voice rings out, this time, from Damascus
It rings out from the house of my mother and father
In Sham. The geography of my body changes.
The cells of my blood become green.
My alphabet is green.
In Sham. A new mouth emerges for my mouth
A new voice emerges for my voice
And my fingers
Become a tribe
2
I return to Damascus
Riding on the backs of clouds
Riding the two most beautiful horses in the world
The horse of passion.
The horse of poetry.
I return after sixty years
To search for my umbilical cord,
For the Damascene barber who circumcised me,
For the midwife who tossed me in the basin under the bed
And received a gold lira from my father,
She left our house
On that day in March of 1923
Her hands stained with the blood of the poem…
3
I return to the womb in which I was formed . . .
To the first book I read in it . . .
To the first woman who taught me
The geography of love . . .
And the geography of women . . .
4
I return
After my limbs have been strewn across all the continents
And my cough has been scattered in all the hotels
After my mother’s sheets scented with laurel soap
I have found no other bed to sleep on . . .
And after the “bride” of oil and thyme
That she would roll up for me
No longer does any other 'bride' in the world please me
And after the quince jam she would make with her own hands
I am no longer enthusiastic about breakfast in the morning
And after the blackberry drink that she would make
No other wine intoxicates me . . .
5
I enter the courtyard of the Umayyad Mosque
And greet everyone in it
Corner to . . . corner
Tile to . . . tile
Dove to . . . dove
I wander in the gardens of Kufi script
And pluck beautiful flowers of God’s words
And hear with my eye the voice of the mosaics
And the music of agate prayer beads
A state of revelation and rapture overtakes me,
So I climb the steps of the first minaret that encounters me
Calling:
“Come to the jasmine”
“Come to the jasmine”
6
Returning to you
Stained by the rains of my longing
Returning to fill my pockets
With nuts, green plums, and green almonds
Returning to my oyster shell
Returning to my birth bed
For the fountains of Versailles
Are no compensation for the Fountain Café
And Les Halles in Paris
Is no compensation for the Friday market
And Buckingham Palace in London
Is no compensation for Azem Palace
And the pigeons of San Marco in Venice
Are no more blessed than the doves in the Umayyad Mosque
And Napoleon’s tomb in Les Invalides
Is no more glorious than the tomb of Salah al-Din Al-Ayyubi…
7
I wander in the narrow alleys of Damascus.
Behind the windows, honeyed eyes awake
And greet me . . .
The stars wear their gold bracelets
And greet me
And the pigeons alight from their towers
And greet me
And the clean Shami cats come out
Who were born with us . . .
Grew up with us . . .
And married with us . . .
To greet me . . .
8
I immerse myself in the Buzurriya Souq
Set a sail in a cloud of spices
Clouds of cloves
And cinnamon . . .
And camomile . . .
I perform ablutions in rose water once.
And in the water of passion many times . . .
And I forget—while in the Souq al-‘Attarine—
All the concoctions of Nina Ricci . . .
And Coco Chanel . . .
What are you doing to me Damascus?
How have you changed my culture? My aesthetic taste?
For I have been made to forget the ringing of cups of licorice
The piano concerto of Rachmaninoff . . .
How do the gardens of Sham transform me?
For I have become the first conductor in the world
That leads an orchestra from a willow tree!!
9
I have come to you . . .
From the history of the Damascene rose
That condenses the history of perfume . . .
From the memory of al-Mutanabbi
That condenses the history of poetry . . .
I have come to you . . .
From the blossoms of bitter orange . . .
And the dahlia . . .
And the narcissus . . .
And the 'nice boy' . . .
That first taught me drawing . . .
I have come to you . . .
From the laughter of Shami women
That first taught me music . . .
And the beginning of adolesence
From the spouts of our alley
That first taught me crying
And from my mother’s prayer rug
That first taught me
The path to God . . .
10
I open the drawers of memory
One . . . then another
I remember my father . . .
Coming out of his workshop on Mu’awiya Alley
I remember the horse-drawn carts . . .
And the sellers of prickly pears . . .
And the cafés of al-Rubwa
That nearly—after five flasks of ‘araq—
Fall into the river
I remember the colored towels
As they dance on the door of Hammam al-Khayyatin
As if they were celebrating their national holiday.
I remember the Damascene houses
With their copper doorknobs
And their ceilings decorated with glazed tiles
And their interior courtyards
That remind you of descriptions of heaven . . .
11
The Damascene House
Is beyond the architectural text
The design of our homes . . .
Is based on an emotional foundation
For every house leans . . . on the hip of another
And every balcony . . .
Extends its hand to another facing it
Damascene houses are loving houses . . .
They greet one another in the morning . . .
And exchange visits . . .
Secretly—at night . . .
12
When I was a diplomat in Britain
Thirty years ago
My mother would send letters at the beginning of Spring
Inside each letter . . .
A bundle of tarragon . . .
And when the English suspected my letters
They took them to the laboratory
And turned them over to Scotland Yard
And explosives experts.
And when they grew weary of me . . . and my tarragon
They would ask: Tell us, by god . . .
What is the name of this magical herb that has made us dizzy?
Is it a talisman?
Medicine?
A secret code?
What is it called in English?
I said to them: It’s difficult for me to explain…
For tarragon is a language that only the gardens of Sham speak
It is our sacred herb . . .
Our perfumed eloquence
And if your great poet Shakespeare had known of tarragon
His plays would have been better . . .
In brief . . .
My mother is a wonderful woman . . . she loves me greatly . . .
And whenever she missed me
She would send me a bunch of tarragon . . .
Because for her, tarragon is the emotional equivalent
To the words: my darling . . .
And when the English didn’t understand one word of my poetic argument . . .
They gave me back my tarragon and closed the investigation . . .
13
From Khan Asad Basha
Abu Khalil al-Qabbani emerges . . .
In his damask robe . . .
And his brocaded turban . . .
And his eyes haunted with questions . . .
Like Hamlet’s
He attempts to present an avant-garde play
But they demand Karagoz’s tent . . .
He tries to present a text from Shakespeare
They ask him about the news of al-Zir . . .
He tries to find a single female voice
To sing with him . . .
“Oh That of Sham”
They load up their Ottoman rifles,
And fire into every rose tree
That sings professionally . . .
He tries to find a single woman
To repeat after him:
“Oh bird of birds, oh dove”
They unsheathe their knives
And slaughter all the descendents of doves . . .
And all the descendents of women . . .
After a hundred years . . .
Damascus apologized to Abu Khalil al-Qabbani
And they erected a magnificent theater in his name.
14
I put on the jubbah of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-Arabi
I descend from the peak of Mt. Qassiun
Carrying for the children of the city . . .
Peaches
Pomegranates
And sesame halawa . . .
And for its women . . .
Necklaces of turquoise . . .
And poems of love . . .
I enter . . .
A long tunnel of sparrows
Gillyflowers . . .
Hibiscus . . .
Clustered jasmine . . .
And I enter the questions of perfume . . .
And my schoolbag is lost from me
And the copper lunch case . . .
In which I used to carry my food . . .
And the blue beads
That my mother used to hang on my chest
So People of Sham
He among you who finds me . . .
let him return me to Umm Mu’ataz
And God’s reward will be his
I am your green sparrow . . . People of Sham
So he among you who finds me . . .
let him feed me a grain of wheat . . .
I am your Damascene rose . . . People of Sham
So he among you who finds me . . .
let him place me in the first vase . . .
I am your mad poet . . . People of Sham
So he among you who sees me . . .
let him take a souvenir photograph of me
Before I recover from my enchanting insanity . . .
I am your fugitive moon . . . People of Sham
So he among you who sees me . . .
Let him donate to me a bed . . . and a wool blanket . . .
Because I haven’t slept for centuries
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Conversion for me was not a Damascus Road experience. I slowly moved into an intellectual acceptance of what my intuition had always known.
quote by Madeleine L'Engle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Saul To Paul
Saul was a very zealous Pharisee, committed to The God of Eternity,
A circumcised Hebrew of Hebrews, opposed to Christ’s Good News,
Saul threatened to murder anyone, who avowed belief in God’s Son,
Fomenting great hatred and strife, against That Way of Jesus Christ.
Those believing in that time and day, were called people of The Way,
Saul then journeyed to Damascus, to arrest believers in Christ Jesus,
On his journey to destroy the Way, the Lord Jesus had words to say,
“Saul, Saul why do you persecute me”, said The Lord of the Pharisee.
This after Saul fell down in fright, all surrounded, by a Heavenly Light,
The men with Saul heard God’s Son, however, those men saw no one,
Telling Saul simply to continue into, Damascus, to be told what to do,
When Saul got up he could not see, and was led by hand into the city.
In the city Saul’s sight was restored, by Ananias a disciple of the Lord,
With hands scales fell from his eyes, through Christ, who he despised;
Yet some disciples were still afraid, because of havoc Saul had made,
But Barnabas a disciple of Christ, encourages Saul about his New Life.
God can save and change anyone, who comes to Christ, His Only Son,
Just as He changed Saul of Tarsus, to become an instrument of Jesus,
Christ’s Light, to the gentile world, as The Good News, he would herald,
No longer would he be called Saul, but now for Christ, the Apostle Paul.
(Copyright ©04/2011)
The Journey
when you can look
in the mirror,
and see your self naked
without running like hell...
the journey begins!
when you can look
at your every action,
judging your self honestly
by motive and intent...
the journey begins!
when you can give away
all that you cling to
without asking for anything
in return...
the journey begins!
when you can do the right thing
irregardless of the cost,
not caring what anyone says
or thinks...
the journey begins!
when you can see the faces
of God in the people you
despise the most, the ones
who've hurt you the most...
the journey begins!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Golden Boy
The golden boy is asleep but the beautiful girls do walk around him,
So why have you hidden your sweet love from me?
For the days are like the rivers of Damascus,
But i know an apple when i do see one!
You left in a rage because of his majestic thing! !
But i will restore your like the flesh of a little child;
Because your Red Stew met my Red Soil last night.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Edward
The man i love is called Edward and,
He will saddle his donkey together with me;
Because true love has no barriers.
I am on the sweet path of love with him always and,
I will give my valley of love for him to eat;
For my sweet food of love is always prepared to him like,
His sweet tree of love.
As white as snow,
As black as coal,
As red as blood,
Like the rivers Abanah and Pharpar of Damascus;
And he is all that i rest my sweet heart on.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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To Damascus
Where the sinister sun of the Syrians beat
On the brittle, bright stubble,
And the camels fell back from the swords of the heat,
Came Saul, with a fire in the soles of his feet,
And a forehead of trouble.
And terrified faces to left and to right,
Before and behind him,
Fled away with the speed of a maddening fright
To the cloughs of the bat and the chasms of night,
Each hoping the zealot would fail in his flight
To find him and bind him.
For, behold you! the strong man of Tarsus came down
With breathings of slaughter,
From the priests of the city, the chiefs of the town
(The lords with the sword, and the sires with the gown),
To harry the Christians, and trample, and drown,
And waste them like water.
He was ever a fighter, this son of the Jews -
A fighter in earnest;
And the Lord took delight in the strength of his thews,
For He knew he was one of the few He could choose
To fight out His battles and carry His news
Of a marvellous truth through the dark and the dews,
And the desert lands furnaced!
He knew he was one of the few He could take
For His mission supernal,
Whose feet would not falter, whose limbs would not ache,
Through the waterless lands of the thorn and the snake,
And the ways of the wild - bearing up for the sake
Of a Beauty eternal.
And therefore the road to Damascus was burned
With a swift, sudden brightness;
While Saul, with his face in the bitter dust, learned
Of the sin which he did ere he tumbled, and turned
Aghast at God's whiteness!
Of the sin which he did ere he covered his head
From the strange revelation.
But, thereafter, you know of the life that he led -
How he preached to the peoples, and suffered, and sped
With the wonderful words which his Master had said,
From nation to nation.
Now would we be like him, who suffer and see,
If the Chooser should choose us!
For I tell you, brave brothers, whoever you be,
It is right, till all learn to look further, and see,
That our Master should use us!
It is right, till all learn to discover and class,
That our Master should task us:
For now we may judge of the Truth through a glass;
And the road over which they must evermore pass,
Who would think for the many, and fight for the mass,
Is the road to Damascus.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.
to George Elder
In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Miscast I
I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,
So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,
So sharp that the air would turn its edge
Were it to be twisted in flight.
Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,
And the mark of them lies, in and out,
Worm-like,
With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.
My brain is curved like a scimitar,
And sighs at its cutting
Like a sickle mowing grass.
But of what use is all this to me!
I, who am set to crack stones
In a country lane!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Saul turns Paul: The Road to Damascus
Blinded by a brilliant light,
On the road to Damascus,
Saul of Tarsus, on horse-back
Heard the voice of Jesus Christ:
‘Saul Saul, why persecute me? ’
‘Who are you? ’ Asked Saul at once.
‘I am Jesus Christ and Lord! ’
Saul saw Christ in apparition!
Others saw the light as well,
But couldn’t hear the divine voice!
Hit by the bolt of light from sky,
Saul fell from his horse-back to ground;
The voice bade him enter city,
Where he would be told what to do;
For three days, Saul remained just blind
And did not eat and drink ever!
Ten years’ younger than Jesus Christ,
Saul annihilated Christians
Whenever, wherever, he could;
He never had seen Jesus Christ.
A disciple, Ananias
Had a vision in Damascus;
To go to the house of Judas
And to restore the sight of Saul.
Ananias did as he was bade;
Something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes;
His sight was restored by God’s will
Ananias then baptized him;
He regained strength after eating;
God chose him as His instrument
To spread His name among Gentiles!
Cured by Ananias, he was
Baptized into Christianity;
From Saul of Tarsus, Pharisee,
Was born an Apostle of Christ;
Paul took his newer Latin name,
An ardent Christian, Apostle.
From youth, he knew how to make tents!
His New Testament Epistles
Became a founding voice of faith
And proved that sins can be absolved
Through faith and grace of Jesus Christ!
God forgives any sin of man,
No matter how grave it could be;
Except against Holy Spirit!
Orthodox Hebrew of Tarsus,
Saul journeyed to Damascus,
To seek and arrest Christians there!
Having witnessed Stephen stoned –
The first Christian martyr Saint!
Saul repressed disciples of Christ
At Jerusalem and elsewhere
Arresting and chaining them all,
Forcing them into blasphemy!
He laid siege to the Church!
Paul learnt the Gospel from no man;
It was revealed to him by Christ;
The grace of God had chosen him
To preach the Gospel to Gentiles;
To Paul in trance-like state, God spoke
And sent him on a mission far
To preach the Word to Gentiles all;
To open their eyes from darkness to light
To turn them away from satan;
Receive forgiveness for their sins.
St. Paul wrote epistles in Greek;
He was martyred (beheaded) in Rome.
June’08 – Jun’09 is ‘Year of St.Paul!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-15-2008
poem by John Celes
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The Opposite Begins
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
That one agitated,
Finds an exit and splits.
People known to create conflict,
Seek an attention they don't get...
Until,
The opposite begins.
Opposition steps in.
They pretend a trust to believe,
To have others perceive but...
The opposite begins,
For them.
Wake up and take notice,
That the opposite begins for them.
Those who charade innocence.
The opposite begins for them.
Those masking evil intent.
The opposite begins for them.
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
Well,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
And...
That one agitated,
Finds an exit and splits.
But then,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
That one who's had it,
Splits and runs into love...
To know the opposite begins,
When someone genuine comes in...
To view.
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
Well,
The opposite begins.
The opposite begins.
And...
That one who's had it,
Splits and runs into love...
To know the opposite begins,
When someone genuine comes in...
To view.
They want it quick.
And...
When one has had it,
With a havoc that misfits...
To then see someone who genuinely fits,
Well...
The opposite begins pursued.
Oh yes it does.
An opposite begins pursued.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sometimes, My Life…
Sometimes, my life seems changed a lot,
And looks like that of Bible’s Job!
Most people ’round me seem to plot,
And I am made to almost sob.
Sometimes, like Moses’ in desert,
In scorching sun and waterless!
With crest-fallen, a mind and heart
Dejected, I trudge on aimless.
Sometimes, like Saul upon the road
To Damascus, I gallop fast;
The Holy Spirit seems to goad
Me righteously, despite my past!
Sometimes, I feel I’m all alone,
With just my God for me as friend;
Nothing can I do on my own,
But God is there to well defend!
My achievements are mountain-like;
My life has been miraculous;
Life’s journey reaches its last lap;
I feel my God is very near!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-2-2009
poem by John Celes
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Toi
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The King of Hamath;
Like the Arameans of Damascus.
But the bride of bondage is like,
The merchandise of cinnamon.
It is all around us,
Of the merchandise of wine;
It is all around you,
Of the merchandise of frankincense;
It is all around me,
Of the merchandise of oil;
But the merchandise of fine flour is like,
The merchandise of wheat.
The merchandise of flowers for my lover,
The merchandise of cattle for my family,
The merchandise of sheep for my neighbour,
The merchandise of horses for my friends,
With the merchandise of chariots and slaves to remember!
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The king of Hamath;
Like the merchandise of arms and,
The merchandise of luxuries.
Give the shields of gold to Toi,
The King of Hamath;
For weeping and wailing will be heard very soon.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ch 07 On The Effects Of Education Story 02
A sage, instructing boys, said to them: ‘O darlings of your fathers, learn a trade because property and riches of the world are not to be relied upon; also silver and gold are an occasion of danger because either a thief may steal them at once or the owner spend them gradually; but a profession is a living fountain and permanent wealth; and although a professional man may lose riches, it does not matter because a profession is itself wealth and wherever he goes he will enjoy respect and sit in high places, whereas he who has no trade will glean crumbs and see hardships:
It is difficult to obey after losing dignity
And to bear violence from men after being caressed.
Once confusion arose in Damascus.
Everyone left his snug corner.
Learned sons of peasants
Became the veziers of padshahs.
Imbecile sons of the veziers
Went as mendicants to peasants.
If you wanted thy father’s inheritance, acquire his knowledge
Because this property of his may be spent in ten days.