Who could have known that Divine gift does not fall softly from heaven to earth, but rather soars through the air like Icarus without wings, scraping its knees on this sinful ground. The earth is always hard, except for spring. When its torrential rains drown the earth like a harem concubine, that hated one chosen by the sultan. And it becomes viscous. Then it is difficult to get out of it, but he did it the easiest. Then he left this land. Without any scraped knees. But with a torn soul.
It is raining now, just like it did then. Several years have passed, but spring still draws me to the place where he was buried, or rather, hidden in the ground, without any honors. But I still don't know where it is, and I don't want to know. Then I would spend days there, not fulfilling my duties, and then that fire would consume me completely.
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Historical Fiction"The pain subsides, or simply gets lost amidst obligations and daily chores. However, there is a time when it returns to its rut. A time when others rejoice in the rebirth of nature, and I burn with the rebirth of pain. Only Allah can judge his deed...
