She brought him a silver-colored notebook. With love and anxiety he opened the pages, but as he began to read, the year 1935 intervened tauntingly, that year of agony, secret schemes, wild hopes, and dreams of Utopia spurred by Othman’s declaration that he had found the ideal solution. It was evident that his little girl, the bud which had not yet flowered, was in love. Who is this glorious being, whose breath is the clouds, whose mirror is the sun, and for whom the tree branches sway in yearning? Why should we be upset when our children travel the path we once took? What would his father think if he could hear him talking to his granddaughter about love?

“This is really poetry.”

Her eyes shone with joy as she exclaimed, “Really?”

“Lovely poetry.”

“You’re only trying to encourage me, Papa.”

“No, it’s the truth.” Then he asked her, smiling, “But who is he?”

The spark of enthusiasm died down in her eyes and she asked, rather disappointed, “Who?”

“Who is it you’re addressing in these lyrics?” Then he said more forcefully, “Come, there are no secrets between us.”

She answered enigmatically, “No one.”

“It seems I’m no longer the father confidant.”

“I mean it’s not a human being.”

“One of the angels?”

“Nor one of the angels.”

“What is it, then—a dream—a symbol?”

In evident confusion, she replied, “Perhaps it is the final purpose of all things.”

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and arms and, making a valiant effort to remove any trace of jest or sarcasm from his tone, said seriously, “Then you are enamored of the secret of existence.”

She said nervously, “That’s quite possible, Papa.”

We’re fools to think of ourselves as stranger than others. “And what brought all this about?”

“I don’t know…It’s difficult to say, but your poems first pointed the way.”

Omar laughed mechanically, saying, “A family conspiracy! Your mother knew what you were up to all along and showed you that stuff which you call poetry.”

“But it’s wonderful poetry, and so inspired.”

He laughed loudly, attracting the attention of the organ grinder below him on the Corniche who was filling the air with his jarring tunes.

“At last I’ve found an admirer! But it wasn’t poetry, just a feverish delusion. Fortunately I got over it in time.”

“While it makes me ecstatic!”

“So poetry is your beloved.”

“As it is yours.”

It was, but is no longer, and my heart feels the deprivation. Between the stars lie emptiness and darkness and millions of light-years.

“What is your advice, Papa?”

“All I can say is, do as you wish.”

She asked gaily, “When will you take up poetry again?”

“For God’s sake, let me get back to the office first!”

“I’m surprised that you could give it up so easily.”

He said, smiling diffidently, “It was simply a frivolous…”