A thick, murky haze of opium smoke rising like a Chinese cloud above a vision of paradise as foretold in a Kashani prayer rug, the lover’s cry bellows forth as he invokes the sage Saadi: The one I long for, who yearns to see me slain, for all her coquetry, is ever free from blame. With this olden verse of longing sprung from the boughs of Shiraz, Mahmood Schricker and his caravan of troubadours set forth, commencing a tale as sweet as the songs of sugar-cracking parrots, and as heart-rending as the reed’s song of separation.
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