Khusrau “was one of the first to offer his congratulations to the murderer whose hands were still red with the blood of his king, his uncle and his benefactor… The poet changed with changing time and turned with shifting wind.”

[last line] The spell was broken. My uncle learned to laugh, and I learned to cry. The secret garden is always open now. Open, and awake, and alive. If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.