A lean sun-browned poet in his late thirties, close-cropped black beard, road-worn robe over a rust-red shirt and twisted saffron sash, right hand…Night at a tall carved doorway of old brick and turquoise tile: the same poet — late thirties, close-cropped black beard, rust-red shirt, saffron sash, kneels low on the step with grit on his sleeves…A grey-bearded gatekeeper in a striped cloak sweeps a drawn blade across the sanctuary threshold, clearing everyone back from it — the richly robed courtier among them, his honour gone in one breath…Cold rain over a washed tiled courtyard: the poet in his ink-black robe and rust-red shirt, crouches over a sheet of old paper and watches his own writing run and lift away from it.Inside a great painted hall, King Jamshid sits crowned on a carpeted dais with a chased brass cup lifted and musicians ranged before him — the knowledge of his own ending legible on the king's warm modelled face…Moonlight on the carved doorway: the beloved, a young woman gracefully veiled in sea-green silk, turns in the opened door…First light in a Khorasani street of brick and wheat-dust: the wealthy householder of the night before stoops to press coins into the cupped hands of a ragged old man, and the poet — ink-black robe, saffron sash…The poet tips his head back beneath an immense star-written night sky, hand open at his side, the carved doorway behind him now wide and unguarded…
