The Third Script september 2016

The Third Script september 2016

With rags and a shaved head, what an influential look did he have, we passed from the ruins of Konya or Shaam, do not know. It was there, in that wreckage that said: that calligrapher wrote three types of scripts: One he could read but no one else.
 


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Report

In Rome or Florence, wherever there was, in the commotion of rock and hammer, what a beautiful hands did he have. He was making David perhaps, his hands were calloused. It was there that shouted with a loud voice: O, the Roman lonely man, whose reputation torn ears and amazed eyes over the centuries, what are you making?! He turned to me with a sound of wild and unrestrained. He said beautiful sentences, sentences that burned deep into my soul. What a pity that I did not find their meanings, Alas, I did not know Latin.
I told him, say, say to me, what is that second script, he closed his eyes, said nothing. Shams was exhausted and frostbitten and a smoky fire.
I told him: For God's sake… Say. He said with a cut voice: the second script, both he and others could read.
What a daunting beauty Isfahan backstreets and its indigo nights have. When all sleep and you and he awake, sitting cross-legged in front of him on the old rug of a paltry dim room with a normal or abnormal pen song on the paper, next to him whose presence is hearts’ warmth and his absence is the boom.
I told him: O, the Great Master of centuries! O, Mir Emad Hassani, the Great Master, the calligraphy king (Qibla), tell me your secret. Master said nothing, just looked at me and gave me a piece of paper among the papers mass, there was no Azan sound but I performed ablution.
I told him: that “third script”, what is it? Say the third script.
Said nothing. It was seven nights that we paced the roads. Her separation was painful to him and Kimia Khatoon's death melted his soul. I shouted, “This is the last chance, Allaedin is in the way, I feel his presence behind these walls. Say, say about that “third script””. He looked at the sky. Put his right hand on his heart and took my frozen hands with his left hand. He moistened his lips with the tongue and said quietly: That third script, neither he nor anyone else could read, that third script....
I looked at the sky, I saw the moon along his look and a man presence. I thought he is not beside me anymore but his secret rested on my tired shoulders as a firm mountain. I paced all the backstreets of Shaam to Qazvin and Isfahan, wandering. It was dawn that I found him in the mirror, the same wandering exhausted man, who paced all throughout of the history with the shoulders tired of trust burden and calloused hands of bitterness. I found him. Here in the mirror, it was around here next to the Saqakhaneh or perhaps a little farther... I found that third script around here, it was in the mirror… perhaps.
 
Ahmad Tak
September, 2016