My grandfather was one of the greatest poets in all the land.
I have inherited his blood and his wealth, but his beautiful spirit does not flow through my veins.
And though men look upon me with honor and respect,
and though they invite me to their mansions and have me dine at their tables,
they care not for my deeper hunger nor can they quench my true thirst.
They care only for the name of my family and for the memory of a great man
that has attached itself to me.
The poor man replied:
My grandfather was naught but a peasant and a farmer and his poverty I have inherited.
And though men look me not in the eye when walking past me
nor waste precious time conversing with me,
I have a hidden honor and a name belonging to the family of the Most High.
The oppression of men is upon me, yet greater still is the Spirit of Poetry that visits me.
Half of my inspiration rises from the ignorance of men
and the other half emerges from my longing for what is truly man.
And where would I be without ignorant men who would teach me wisdom?
After a moment, seeing that the rich could not give the poor an honorable name among men,
and that the poor could not give the rich a singing heart,
they both left their village hand in hand, in search of a Greater Land,
one that preys neither upon the rich nor the poor.
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