Listen to the flute and understand what it sings is always farewell pain. Since they cut me out of my reeds, she sings, I sing what people suffered.
My marrow is hollowed, carved, I surrender it until I am only the voice of longing. For he who is expelled from his source wants to know nothing but the moment of return.
Mystic Rumi (Translated by Mrs Annemarie Schimmel)
Ink on paper