To my beloved poet interred deep in the earth, Al Ma'arri—

How many of my tongues shall I cut out until you can understand me? How many leagues of dirt shall I shovel until my voice is more than mere mumbling? I've disturbed your sleep to tell you that I have dared abandon worship in the mosque, the shriek of prayer, and the sacrificial sheep. I have become blind like you! How I wish you were alive to hear from my own voice what I have written. I imagined that you would take me as your disciple and approved my undertaking, and urged me to leave my bed and write my poems. Know that you've helped me finally see for myself.

I laugh at myself now. For as a young man, in my village, there was an old blind man like you who said he's traveled far and wide, but I didn't believe him.

I called out to him mockingly, "How far have you gone? Who have you seen?"

"Beyond the spaces between stars," said he, placing his hand over his heart.

And he told me of... [click here!]