> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.richardjnewman.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # From Saadi’s Bustan: A Ghūrid Tyrant Reformed by A Courageous Peasant - URL: https://www.richardjnewman.com/from-saadis-bustan-a-ghurid-tyrant-reformed-by-a-courageous-peasant/ - Published: 2026-05-29T19:37:08.000Z - Updated: 2026-05-29T19:37:08.000Z - Description: A Poem from 13th Century Iran - Author: Richard Jeffrey Newman - Tags: Blog, Translation Dear Friends, I have been posting these translations—revised versions of those included in my **Selections from Saadi’s Bustan—*as a way of making Iran’s culture and literary history visible at a time when that visibility seems more important than ever. This is the last poem that I translated from the first chapter of **Bustan,* and I am going to take a break from this project for a little while because I have other projects that need my attention. I will eventually return to it, though. I have deliberately not put these translations behind a paywall, but if you’d like to support this work, you can do by becoming a paid subscriber [here](https://www.richardjnewman.com/#/portal/signup/65988db373946800080fe780/yearly) or by making a one time contribution [here](https://www.richardjnewman.com/#/portal/support). Whether you contribute or not, I am happy to have you as a reader, and I hope these poems from so many centuries ago have brought you pleasure and perhaps given you food for thought. **§§§** I’ve heard it said about a king of Ghūr who’d seize his subjects pack mules for his own that he weighed them down and worked them without food until the wretched beasts would die, two each day. When fortune favors ignoble men like that, it bends the backs of the tight-hearted poor. From his high roof, that self-important man will dump his piss and shit on the roofs below. I’ve heard that once, when he went out to hunt, that unjust ruler took off at a gallop, chasing his prey till night overtook him and he lost all contact with his retinue. On his own, he did not know the way, but then, though he never asked for help, night cast him like a wave at the edge of a village, where, at that moment, a wise old man was saying to his son, “My blessed child, do not take your mule to town this morning. That undeserving man whom fortune made our morally corrupt, tight-fisted king— for whom a coffin will soon replace his throne— has armed himself to honor the demon’s will. The cries of those beneath his tyranny rise as one to fill the dome of heaven. No one in his kingdom lives at ease, and no one ever will, not till this man, so tainted and corrupt he can’t know peace, carries to hell the curses we call down.” The son replied, “The road is long and hard. I cannot go on foot. What should I do? Your thinking’s always clearer than my own.” The father said, “If you want my advice, find yourself a large and heavy stone and strike this beast that works so hard for you until you wound its head and legs and flanks. I have no doubt that worthless miscreant will have no use for a mule he can’t load up. Do like the prophet Khidr, who wrecked a boat to keep it from the cruel tyrant’s hands, the king who in a year gained many ships, but a tarnished name for all the years to come. A curse upon the empire he rules! May disgrace stain his name till Judgment Day.” Once he heard his father’s words, the son did not hesitate to do as he was told, beating the mule with a stone over and over until the wounded beast could barely walk. Then his father told him to make his way as best he could. The son obeyed, cursing as he led the lame beast behind the caravan. The father faced the door and bowed in prayer: “For the sake, dear God, of the prayers the righteous offer, let my life be long enough to see the ruin that must be this despot’s fate. For if I do not witness his destruction, I will not sleep in the grave’s eternal night. Better a woman should bear a still-born fetus than a boy should become a man who’s a devil; better a woman than a man who hurts others; better a dog than a tyrant or abuser. A boy who gives himself to the use of men may do injustice to himself, but still outshines those who do evil to others.” The king said nothing when he heard all this. He tethered his horse and, head on his saddle-cloth, lay awake all night and counted stars, worry and dejection keeping him from sleep, but once he heard the rooster’s morning cries, he thought no more of the night’s long misery. Having galloped hard throughout the night, his knights, at sunrise, recognized his horse’s trail. They saw him in a clearing on that steed and ran as one to bow prostrate before him. (They surged like a sea covering the earth.) One from among his oldest friends—at night, his chamberlain; by day, his constant companion— asked, “What did your subjects provide you while we rested neither our eyes nor our ears?” The king could not bear to let himself repeat the foul invective he’d been forced to hear so instead he leaned his head in close and whispered low and soft in his friend’s ear, “Nothing, not even a single drumstick, and pack mules trampled me from dusk till dawn!” They sat themselves right there, those noblemen, and called for food and drink to celebrate. As the laughter and the shouting filled his thoughts, the king remembered what that old man said, and ordered him brought there, tightly bound. They threw him to the ground at the king’s feet and that black-hearted monarch drew his sword. Seeing no escape, that helpless man raised his head and, emptied of all hope, spoke. “In death’s shadow, silence serves no purpose. I’m not the only one who says your fate is sealed, though I’m perhaps the first you’ve caught. Why take out your wrath on me alone when all your subjects also say the same! You can’t expect to rule by unjust decree then hear your name be praised throughout the realm; and if you find it hard to hear this now stop bearing down so hard on those you rule! You have the means to choose another way; the innocents you kill have no defense. Take from me my few remaining days, then take a couple more from my sweet life! Death will take the tyrant too, in his time, but time won’t blunt the curses on his name. This wisdom is for you if you accept it. You *will* live to regret it if you don’t. How can a king count himself as praised by those who praise him when he’s holding court? What use to him is that entire court’s applause, when he’s reviled by a woman spinning wool?” He spoke despite the sword above his head, holding his soul like a shield against his fate. Have you seen a pen with a knife at *its* head? What flows from its tongue flows that much more smoothly. The sovereign grew solemn, shamed by all he’d done, as if an angel whispered in his ear: “Put down your sword. The retribution you seek only adds one more to your account.” The king turned and drew his robes around him; then turning back, he cast his sleeves wide. With his own hand he undid the old man’s bonds, kissing his head, embracing him warmly, bestowing upon him authority and power. This was the fruit borne by that man’s hope Now this tale’s been told for all to hear: the fortunate will choose the honest as their guide. The praise of learned men will teach you less than ignorant critique of your character. Those who pay you homage do not help; your friends are those who blame you for your faults. Let your enemy tell you who you are; your confidants say what you want to hear. Giving sweets does harm to one who suffers if bitter medicine is what he needs. The stern-faced man who tells you painful truths will aid you more than kind and pleasant comrades. No one gives as good advice as this: if you’re smart, a hint is all you need to take it.