The carpet

I sit on the carpet, my fingers slowly tracing its intricate patterns. I wonder what the carpet weaver was thinking. He has left me few clues. I follow lines that go nowhere, jump to what seems like a flower or maybe a star, and get lost amidst its radiance.

Hafez tells us that the soul knows one hundred sighs.

Maybe the carpet weaver weaved his sighs into the carpet. Maybe the colourful patterns are calls to his beloved to come and sit next to him.

I am not a carpet weaver and you are far away. All I can do is let my sighs scatter light across the night sky, tracing the road you must take to come into my arms.

All I can do is wait – wait with the carpet weaver’s same infinite patience as he tied each knot thinking about his beloved.

I am tired now so I will slowly place my head on the carpet, and in the comfort of its softness, let my thoughts blend with its colours.

My eyes are closing. The faint aroma of Mohammedi rose water enrobes me, the same roses I once admired in Kashan, the same ones I use to flower apricot jam so that others may taste poetry.

I think I will sleep now. So looking east, I orient my last thoughts on your face hoping it may look up and see the road my sighs lit up for you in the sky.