Shahriyar invites me to walk.

The gardens are gripped by winter.

We walk a carpet of flowers,

with paths interlaced to provide

an intricate maze to navigate.

I tell the flying carpet story.

I see he loves to imagine

escaping earth, gaining distance,

give problems a new perspective.

Even those who never flew know

a mountain looks daunting from below

But from the top the world is small

and stars fall away.

I tell of mythical creatures,

half human, and of demons snared,

Of the serpent who wants to eat

the whole world and the man who craves

eternal life, but forgets to ensure

he asks the mage for eternal youth.

I tell him of Solomon,

with his army of thousands,

meeting with the Queen of the Ants.

He pays homage to her who has

more soldiers than he ever can.

He brings her majesty the gift

of a locust’s leg.

I tell him the lives of the children

who made for profit this carpet garden

Their eyes start keen, their fingers nimble.

But soon the flowers blur to blots

of colour, fingers stiffen to claws,

backs become curved as tortoises.

I tell him of the gardener

planting acorns, who will never see

The glory of the mature oak.

Who patiently cross-pollinates flowers

to find new shades and scented blooms,

who rakes a pile of leaves to make

an ounce of fertile soil.