Number 22

The axe of our thought makes no dent in our grief. I wish that axe would just fall on our own head instead. Our palm tree, it seems, will never bear the fruit of progress, as if our roots and veins have sunk into solid steel. No wonder the moon shattered apart like torn linen, when the flash of our axe blade claims to rival its light. My heart will never agree to come together with yours. I fear, my friend, that our glass will smash against your stone. You are not a man to carry our slight burden, Fayyaz; your lion would only claw at the rock in our thicket.