We are but stories of a distant past.
Woven on the lips of a curious child
and shared over a bonfire in a nomad tribe.
Whispered like long forgotten prayers.
Some that were answered, others that were not.
Timeless like carvings in an underground cave
waiting patiently for thousands of years
to be discovered by a strange wanderer.

Of pains and sufferings.
Of hopes and dreams.
Of what ifs and what was.
Of small things that matter.
Like beads in the hands of a darvesh.
Counted again and again in a never ending loop.
Like the spinning and whirling in a sufis dance.

That can be seen in the architecture of an old castle.
That are painted on the canvas of life.
That are sung in an orchestra that only you listen to.
Echoing and bellowing like a child's cry.

Some of them delicate like pages of an old book.
Sublime and fleeting like the fragrance of your favourite perfume.
Yet profound, like steep mountain cliffs.
Majestic in nature.
Mysterious to understand.

We are all but stories.

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