Listen to this story how in Baghdad A flag and a curtain fell into dispute. Travel stained, dusty and fatigued, the flag Said to the curtain by way of reproach: ‘I and thou, we are both fellow servants, Slaves of the sultan’s palace. Not a moment had I rest from service In season and out of season I travelled about. Thou hast suffered neither toil nor siege, Not from the desert, wind, nor dust and dirt. My step in the march is more advancing. Then why is thy honour exceeding mine? Thou art upon moon-faced servants Or jessamine scented slave girls. I have fallen into prentice hands. I travel with foot in fetters and head fluttering.’ The curtain said: ‘My head is on the threshold Not like thine in the heavens. Who carelessly lifts up his neck Throws himself upon his neck.’
