As the clouds pass quickly wind blowing
Moving shapes sliding over mountain curves
So it is with the moods of your beauty.

In the Fin Garden of the central Iranian city of Kashan with a girl named Flower and her classmates I received the call on my mobile phone that was a death knell to my hopes of staying a month longer in Iran. “Not one hour, not one minute longer” than the Tuesday visa expirey date could I stay in the country: the date pressing down on top of me like a leaden monster whispering that I haven’t even a flight ticket out.

How well people listen is the hallmark of their mental state and clarity. They say that dissapointment is the Freind, and the Iranian word ‘qesmat’ spells destiny’s wish. May my ears be opened.

In other countries when it was time to go I lamented and regretted but this parting is touching the deepest part of me, the water’s source and its touch is pain and fire. I push the wheel-barrow of accustations against myself in front of me: I did not try hard enough to learn Farsi (Persian language), I did not visit all the family places and people as was my duty, I squandered my time here. I must just sing the mantra of coming back.