It cannot be ignored, has to be said that this is done in my name. Some enemy are cowards, dressing as women and old men, drawing fire to the homes and gathering places. How to fight that?
How does this fellow go on?
So I present bent trees, mosques and buildings, poems of mountain retreat and watery solace, rivers flowing, ducks and pigeons in their lives and other' lives long gone, flowers and beauty. Attempts at cleverly relating visual image with written image (a lost friend used to tell me that all of my photographic images did not present many people--so true as I look back) are presented as attempts at relating to the world.
But some of the world creeps in late at night, around the edges, hanging onto thought and precluding sleep. How to handle this?
I wondered how Rumi (16th century Persian Sufi Poet) would see it:
Then it landed on earth to look at me.
Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey;
That moon stole me and rushed back into the sky.
I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore;
For in that moon, my body turned as fine as soul.
The nine spheres disappeared in that moon;
The ship of my existence drowned in that sea.
I am not sure what more I can say. . . WHY?