Madness! He only wrote part of the book
attributed to him, another song,
a couple chapters in a style just like
the stories of the desert he had heard.
The stanzas opened like a turning day
is met with dawn; Book I, Book II, Book III
illuminate the world like a white Sun
whose light reveals the ending of things.
The limits of a book are not the bounds
of covers, the margins of thin pages, nor the
varied meanings found in its semantics.
The books live on like Shakespeare's sonnets do:
in songs read by the minds of other eras
who long for their beloved with Majnun.
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