SuperRare

“Beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field. I’ll meet you there!”.
The sound of verses spoken in Persian spun around Shams’s body as a thread of silver would in the hands of the Anatolian rug makers. It was the Mulberry tree that stood at the doorstep of Konya that made the dervish’s body shudder. He had seen it all in a dream, the already bare tree, the rooftops, the minarets all suspended in that sweet serenity at the edge of bewilderment he knew all too well.
He would soon lay eyes upon him. He had made it. It was time.
The people of Konya paid no heed as Shams moved up the narrow street that smelled of cardamom and chai. He had long abandoned the woollen garments of a dervish in exchange for a merchant’s robe. People were not so hospitable to dervishes, or worse they’d often try to bargain for more kismet or ask about their fortune as if visions and attainments were anyone’s free will.