has come "ulaq", which uses horses of the Sultans, with relays every four miles, to carry mail and news to the confines of the kingdom. I have been given your last three scrolls. I have read at the foot of one of the many fig trees that dot the roads of India.
Yes, Belit legend remains. Is ahead of the Scribe. Happy are those Uxa, you can feel in your skin air and light, in the way of Santiago, and stepping on the morning dew. Your writings are a window to infinity. Without sand of the desert to hide feelings. Your words are drops of water from a blue that purifies the reader.
is timid hope, the desire to know the secret name of the Scribe. This desire need a bridge, cross it, cross it without fear. You have to dream to lose my mind. We are a legend. Many
love is a form of gnosis. Others, something that does not exist, will never exist. A and others were slaughtered before catching appearance. Why wait for the meeting. To the destination, which is immortal, is mourning the inability to prepare an intimate event. I
way India's capital Delhi. Gone are the oaks of my land Barbitanya, the beautiful capital of the Upper Al-Andalus. I can not hear the rustling of their leaves. They have been able to unravel my destiny. Also, the lotus flower, the beautiful wife of the Nile recedes in the distance, but not in the memory. The mystery to me is, India.
I am writing from Delhi.
The city is surrounded by a powerful wall with many towers and gates. The cemetery, near the entrances are adorned with lilies and numerous other kinds of flowers.
Everything is written from the ground that emerged Pelasgians of Arcadia. Since Hermes was the alphabet of Greece to our land, Egypt.
light reflecting on the great lake Sams ad-Din on the edge, I see my face, my hair has been impregnated with sesame oil and washed with clay. Locals say that the smooth and makes them grow. Some birds
above, lie in the wind. In the distance, clouds cover the sin of the evening. It all adds up beside me. Years, uncertainty and the distance that separates me from the dreams. The bag of coins lying loose, very loose dirhams.
philosophy books I have not hit the mark. Ah! The story of me cause doubts. Stories of independence, freedom, sovereignty, independence ... do because I'm still a slave, yes, a slave of the nation, religion, money, lies of these tribes ... Sure, I'm weird. Surely I am in the final, well down the stretch. I do not want to take stock of my life, would be worse. Also, what I am, I have to go to visit India.
Now I'm alone, I do not know if this is good or bad, but I do not like, of course, nor am convinced by the Turkish colleagues who accompany me. Just drink wine, wine, another came, and then ... well da.
Anyway, I ask God for forgiveness, but I doubt a lot of religions that I know since I left Alexandria. Of his priests, well, some. I think something must exist. And ... if there is no better.
I will eat a mash samaj beans cooked with buffalo milk. I agree, but what is right for me?, Not eating, no drinking, no ..., so what I'm here. Here in this world. But ... there is another world?
I can not get the satisfaction of my adventures. Sure, I know I'm not good browser, but if not I go in search of knowledge of new lands, what I do.
is only two days of full moon to rendezvous with the caravan ... What do I do? I lay on the carpets of zagüía Abuisaq Sheikh, where to stay for fifteen days or I'll give you a ride to see if I miss the torpor of the food and wine. I went to
zagüía. I was offered a female captives. Buy here is within reach of the poorest. The rejected because of its extremely dirty. I was not out yesterday. Celebrated the festival of breaking the fast. Do not want to risk that recognize me as an infidel.
I have given the head of a caravan bound for Ipet-Sut temple, the temple-city where I think you live at this time, next to your father's brother, a priest of Ra at Heliopolis. That
Dhat and Vidhata, twist, beautiful and happy, the string of your Destiny.