He glanced at the walls—A framed picture of Rumi, with those deep, profound eyes, and
beside it, an image of Qahhar Asi—a broken yet resilient face.
He stepped closer, laid his hand gently on Rumi’s picture, and spoke softly, his voice thick
with sorrow:
“My Rumi… you said:
‘Go, go… for love does not stay trapped in a cage.’
But where should I go, when the earth itself has turned its arms away from me?
And you, Qahhar… O poet of pain and fire… This time, where shall we go?
Why did you write this poem:
‘Go well, go…
May the dawns of glad tidings be your companion…
Go, but don’t leave behind the memory of eyes…
That, tired and worn, framed you
Within a broken window of hope…’”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and a lump choked his throat. He took a step back and stared
at the whole office, as if imprinting it in his memory for the last time.