Years later, when Bda was no longer, and the old one had calmed, and the surf was asleep, the only thing that remained was half the rug.

People said that when the wind is gone, it will smell.

And sometimes at night, the voice of the moon came, and a quiet green memory.

But no one knew that in the same years, in the distant years, the plot of the rug was in the big cities. He was the one who had a great day, and he had a small piece of paper..

He showed that role to every city he had. In the marketplace, in the caravans of the Qur’an, in the workshops of the ovens..

Every time he opened the paper, a fresh boar that said, “This plan smells water. It’s like we remember.”

The merchant traveled for years. On every trip, he showed the plan to someone. In Tabriz, in the narrow alleys filled with the smell of Ronas and Nile, the silent winds, in Herat, among the noisy market, and even in the squin, where stars were closer to Earth at night..

The city’s rugs looked closely at the role, counted the nodes, and said, “This plan is strange, as if it wanted to be woven.”

Each piece changed slightly with every hand that was woven. Color of threads, tree shadow, river waves. But every change adds a new part to life..

And it was strange that every time the rug was finished, someone who was woven experienced a night in which he felt the overgreen sleep, the sound of birds, and the smell of the pomegranate..

Sometimes the merchant looked at his paper in silence and remembered that day when he said, “From the wind. from the soil that was too much. From the hour of the day.”

Sometimes in the dream, he heard the ring of white goats coming from the fares..

One winter night, in the oven, the merchant sat beside the fire. A blind man, in the corner of the market, was busy. The merchant opened the paper. The blind man touched his finger..

He smiled and said, “This is a reminder.”

He asked, “What’s the place?”

The quiet old man replied, “The space is still, but no one sees it. Where the river is asleep.”

Years passed. The plan changed. Sometimes the colors were warmer, sometimes the tree of the center of the role gave unknown fruits. Then the heavens came to heaven..

But wherever it was, there was a trace of Kom. A knot, wave, or even a color that no one knew why it was so familiar..

When they saw the city, they wanted to walk on the soil and smell the rain..

The merchant was old, but kept his old paper. In an unknown city, when the wind was in the narrow alleys, he opened the paper and looked at it..

The designs on it were painted again. But the man felt it smelled. And the smell of the day he felt..

His eyes were wet. He said with himself.And:

“This role may never end... Because the owner has not yet reached the last node.”

That night, he dreamed that a boy was sitting with his small hair. The boy smiled and said, “The next one is with you.”

At the same time in the night, the wind was half full. And they are in the palm. As if they were responding to a distant sound..

And in the dark corner of the room, there was a place between Tar and Pod, a knot that was never struck. He who was waiting for him to remember his heart again..

** ***

Years later, a young man came to Kuala. In his hand, he was old. He said he inherited it from his grandfather, a grandfather who traveled for years, and said of the carpets of different cities..

The young man, on his path, had heard the story of the pomegranate many times, from the tongue of those who had never seen Comet, but as if they were carrying it in their dreams..

When he arrived, people looked curious. He opened the paper and looked at the half-finished carpet..

She said under the lips.And:

“This is too much... Only incomplete.”

They are shining under the dawn. A young man, no matter what he says, has a cream..

The next node was struck..

And at the same time, the calm wind passed through the Comet. The wind smelled water. The smell of the.

As if the river that had died many years ago, for a brief moment, breathed again into the soil..

And for the first time after years, there came a round of birds, like a thirsty trio who returned home..

Paul wrote:

Here are the signs, the smears,

A: The Magician.

In the past, they used to move and replicate the textures of the plot on the sheets they called map sheets.