A plume of sand raises and twists
In the midst of the Rub' al Khali
Where nothing except nothing exists
The winds of desert carry dust
And the heat sucks air from lungs
Nothing living can survive there
Where the bleak landscape drowns life
No faerie songs are sung
The only sound that thrives
Is that of blowing sands and wind
And blazing heat
No life can be wrung
From a land selfishly dry
Selfishly hot
In the center of nothing
Where life is prohibited by the waste
Stands a tall citadel and structure
Made entirely of gold
The halls luxurious with fibers
Untrodden by feet with shoes
The walls decorated with tapestries
Made of silk and gold and perfect hues
No one knows who made it
The knowledge solely possessed by eternity
It stands where life shouldn’t be
And offers succor to the weak
Chapter One
"Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving — it doesn't matter,
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times,
Come, come again, come."
Rumi
