Yunus Emre knelt before the mulla, begged,

Our village starves, give me five wheat satchels, that they may live.

The mulla raised his open palm,lowered head and eyes, whispered,

There are no satchels to give, but you may have a blessing.

Yunus Emre stretched prostrate on the marble floor, beseeched,

The children starve, give four wheat satchels, that they may live.

The mulla whispered,

I have no satchels, but will give you two blessings.

Weeping.

Three?

Breathless.

Three.

The beating of the floor.

Two?

Stillness.

Four.

Sobbing.

One?

The mulla covered his face.

As it is your will.

Five wheat satchels weighedYunus Emre's back, as hefound himself already onthe silent road of his return.

Walking against desert wind,lips cracked in the heat, Yunusdream the cooking pot, the oven,the wheat as bread, as cake,and even that evening, gone.

Yunus wept, as his burden dropped into the empty road, and he stumbled into darkness.

By morning, Emre reached the mulla's tent, desolate,wind-torn, abandoned.

His body trembled before itfell, his prayer lost in keeningwind, and tent flap snap.

I did not understand. I did not see. Forgive me. I would take a blessing, offered in this empty life.

An answer came. From where?The voice, a whisper, almostunperceived, since inconceivable.

Too late! Too late! Now sixty years wandering will not teach what generosity would give today so freely.

and Yunus Emre wandered,then, for sixty years, foundhis village destroyed, his lifeimpoverished and isolated,until the sunrise, when the promised blessing came.

XD Hahahaha I still love how this poem sounds like it's saying something VERY different! I love how it was even worse before... and how it hasn't gotten much better in that sense..."...if i was wrong last night to want to see you"Lovely, Mel. Hahaha