THE VISITATION

THE VISITATION

Part I

The biting Michigan wind whipped around me, a cruel counterpoint to the warmth I felt radiating from within. Dearborn in March was a symphony of grey-grey skies, grey concrete, and grey, damp leaves clinging to the skeletal trees. But within me, a fire danced, fueled by the words of men long dead who had somehow, impossibly, arrived in my quiet, suburban life. It had begun subtly. A line of poetry here, a philosophical musing there, slipping into my thoughts like whispers carried on the breeze. I found myself contemplating the ephemeral nature of existence, the intoxicating allure of love, and the intoxicating depths of wine. It was disconcerting, to say the least. I went about my days, but my mind was far away, wandering through the sun-drenched gardens of Persia, or perhaps more accurately, through the pages of their poems.

Then came the dreams.

The first was a shimmering mirage in the dusty landscape of my subconscious. I was in a grand courtyard, the air thick with the scent of roses and something intoxicating. A man with a fiery beard and eyes that held the weight of a thousand stories, strumming a stringed instrument. His voice was a low hum that vibrated through me, even in sleep, and he spoke of love, of the yearning of the soul for union with the divine. He was Rumi; I knew it instinctively. Not the dry subject of my lectures, but the Rumi of the Masnavi, a living, breathing tempest. Rumi’s ecstatic cries of divine love, once a balm to my soul, are now twisted into obsessive pronouncements. “Wherefore do you seek me outside when I am within? Within your veins, your very marrow, I reside,” had become the terrifying refrain that echoed in the silence of my mind, the words not of blissful union but of claustrophobic possession.

The next night, the courtyard was transformed. The roses were replaced with neatly arranged books and scrolls. A man with a kind smile and a gentle, scholarly demeanor sat amidst them. This was Saadi Shirazi, the master of didactic verse. He spoke of the wisdom in lived experience, the importance of humanity, and the delicate balance between justice and compassion. His smooth and measured words grounded the ethereal heights of Rumi, making them something tangible, something I could grasp. Saadi’s gentle lessons of morality took on a cruel, judgmental edge. “The wicked man seeks only his pleasure; the righteous man seeks only to please God,” became a whispered threat, accusing me of some unseen transgression, a guilt I could not name but felt in the marrow of my bones. I found myself constantly scanning the shadows, convinced I was being watched and judged by a silent, unseen audience.

The dreams continued each night, a new encounter, a new facet of this strange intrusion. I met Omar Khayyam, a man whose melancholy was etched onto his face like the lines of an ancient manuscript. He spoke of the fleeting beauty of life, of the wine that could dull the sharp edge of mortality, of the questions that echoed through the ages without answer. His skepticism was both unsettling and strangely comforting, a recognition of the universe’s inherent indifference. “Drink wine, for soon you will join us in dust,” now felt like a desperate, agonizing plea, a reminder of the gnawing void that threatened to swallow me whole. The beauty in the transient was gone, replaced with a chilling fear of annihilation.

Then came Hafez. He was different. Where the others seemed to inhabit a specific time and place, Hafez, with his playful wit and enigmatic allusions, seemed to exist both within my dream and just beyond it, his presence a shimmering, half-seen promise. His words were intoxicating, a blend of sensual desire and mystical longing, a dance between the sacred and the profane. He spoke of the Beloved with such fervor that I felt my heartache with a longing I couldn’t name. The master of subtle seduction, whose verses once celebrated love and beauty with such delicate grace, now spoke only of a dark, carnal hunger. “Oh, beloved, open your soul to me, and forsake the heavens and earth,” had become a desperate, ravenous chant, something akin to a predator’s growl, making me recoil from my reflection.

The dreams were no longer just dreams. I started seeing them in the garden as flashing images. I saw their spectral forms in the condensation on my car windshield, winking at me from the reflections in the puddles of rain. They were everywhere, these poets from another time, their verses seeping into my reality like ink bleeding into parchment. I grew weary and afraid. I was losing my grip on the mundane, on the secure, predictable rhythm of my life. The transformation wasn’t just in the words but in the way they felt. They burrowed into my mind, not as poetry anymore, but as parasitic entities, whispering, cajoling, and ultimately, controlling. I found myself saying things I didn’t intend, performing actions I didn’t understand. My hands would move seemingly of their own accord, writing verses in my journal that chilled me to the core, verses that were not mine, not anymore. It was as if the poets themselves had reached across the centuries, their bewildered spirits taking residence within me.

I tried to explain it to my friends. I stammered about Persian poets appearing in my dreams, about their words taking root within me, reshaping my very soul. They looked at me with polite concern, offering me herbal tea and suggestions for stress management techniques. I knew they thought I was losing it, and maybe I was. The rational part of my brain told me it was all a byproduct of too much research and too little sleep, but the part of me that felt the weight of Rumi’s longing, the wisdom of Saadi, the melancholic acceptance of Khayyam, and the intoxicating allure of Hafez, knew this was something else entirely.

The old, worn book I had been using felt heavier than usual that night. The calligraphic script seemed to writhe on the page, no longer elegant but grotesque, like an insect infestation. My fingers trembled as I reached for it, the leather cold and clammy against my skin. I had to understand. I had to find some semblance of sanity within this descent. I tried to counter them, to write my verses, to reclaim my voice. But each attempt was met with a wave of nausea, a throbbing headache that felt like my skull was cracking. The poets’ words clawed their way back in, louder, more insistent, like a pack of hungry wolves circling their prey.

I was no longer just their vessel; I was their instrument. And their music, once beautiful, was now a siren’s call, luring me towards an unknown abyss. I looked around, noticing the way the dust motes in the air seemed to dance to a rhythm I couldn’t quite hear, the way the shadows stretched and writhed like living things. I was certain that the air was thick and heavy like a tomb, and I was trapped inside it. I closed the book, pushing it away as if it were venomous. I walked to the window, seeking solace in the familiar sights of my neighborhood. But even the comfort of the dimly lit street felt tainted now, the shadows lurking with a malevolence that hadn’t been there before. I could have sworn I saw their faces in the swaying branches of the oak tree, their eyes glowing with a spectral fire. Rumi’s piercing gaze, Saadi’s pursed lips of disapproval, Khayyam’s hollow sockets, and Hafez’s seductive smirk – they were everywhere, and they were all inside me.

I started to see them, not just in my mind, but in the periphery of my vision. Flickering shadows resolved into the distinct forms of four men dressed in the robes of ancient Persia. They never spoke, just watched, their expressions unreadable, yet filled with an ancient and chilling understanding. I jumped at the sound of the faucet dripping in the kitchen and pressed my back against the wall. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew I was losing myself, each passing moment pulling me further away from the person I once was. I felt like a marionette, my limbs controlled by unseen strings, the poets’ twisted words dictating my every action, my every thought. I tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive weight of their verses.

That night would be the last dream. It was of a desolate desert landscape, the air thick with the scent of decay. Four figures stood before me, their forms shifting and swirling like sandstorms. I reached out, desperate for some kind of connection, but my hand went right through them. Their laughter echoed across the barren landscape, a chilling sound that seemed to vibrate in my very bones.
Rumi, in his simple robe, was gesticulating passionately, his beard twitching with emotion. Saadi stood beside him, his hands clasped gently, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Rumi’s fervor. Omar Khayyam, his face etched with a perpetual sadness, was kicking at a stray pebble with his sandal. And Hafez, with a mischievous glint in his eye, was watching a group of squirrels scamper up a nearby tree.

I stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the rocks, my heart pounding like a trapped bird in my chest. I scrabbled backward, desperate to put some distance between myself and these horrific apparitions. “No!” I managed to shout, my voice raw with fear. “I don’t want to… to be like you!”

Hafez laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that sent shivers down my spine. “You cannot escape us, mortal. You are already part of the cycle, already drawn into the web.”

I froze; the air around me crackled with a malignant energy. The smell of damp earth had given way to the stench of decay, a smell of old bones and damp grave soil that left a metallic taste in my mouth. They turned toward me, their expressions a mix of welcome and something else, something akin to concern. Rumi stepped forward, his eyes burning into mine.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate my very bones. “Our words, our verses, they have found their way to you.”

“It’s more than that,” I whispered, my voice barely audible above the wind. “They’ve invaded me. I can’t think straight. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

They began to advance, a slow, deliberate movement, their spectral forms flickering and changing, their faces morphing into grotesque parodies of human faces. I could feel the pull, the allure of their darkness, the seductive promise of oblivion.

Saadi stepped forward, offering a reassuring smile. “The words are not meant to consume you, young one. They are meant to awaken you. To open your heart and your mind to the infinite possibilities of existence.”

Saadi’s voice seemed to break their spell, and for a fleeting moment, the fear inside me paused.

Khayyam sighed, the sound like a rustling of dried leaves, “Words, perhaps, are a curse. A reminder of the truths we struggle to ignore.”

Hafez chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. “Or perhaps, my friend, it is a blessing. A chance to dance between worlds, to taste the sweetness of both the earthly and the divine.”

Their voices, distorted and echoing, filled my mind, promising me everything and threatening me with nothing. Their words swirled around me, a confusing cacophony of wisdom, melancholy, longing, and playful seduction. I looked at them, these men I had only known through the dusty pages of history, and I realized that they weren’t just in my dreams; they were in my soul. And my soul, it seemed, was now a vast and tumultuous landscape, populated by the echoes of their verses. I didn’t fear them. Not anymore. What happened to me the next night, I doubt any rational soul would believe.

Part II

The rain was relentless, though only a drizzle on an oddly warm night in March. I sat in my garage, a pot of tea and snacks beside me. The air hung heavy, the scent of damp earth and cut grass filling my nostrils. Morross Street, usually a clamor of car horns and boisterous laughter, was unusually quiet, a stillness that felt less peaceful and more like the breath before a storm. But tonight, a strange unease prickled at my skin. The dreams of dead poets still pervaded my mind and haunted me. Maybe it was the way the streetlights seemed to swim in the dancing rain or the eerie silence that fell between me. I was lost in the swirling patterns of the constellations, a futile attempt to map some order onto the vast chaos of reality when they appeared. Not in a dream, or as a sudden flash, or a dramatic entrance, but like figures coalescing from the very fabric of the night itself. The world around me was folding and twisting and then unfolding to reveal four figures standing amidst my father’s withered garden. They weren’t exactly translucent, not ghosts in the way I’d imagined them. Instead, they were vividly real, yet possessed an ethereal quality, as if they were painted with light instead of pigment. My heart hammered against my ribs, but strangely, I wasn’t afraid, just a bit bewildered. The tallest of the four, a figure with a long, flowing beard and piercing eyes, spoke in a voice that resonated like a distant bell. He moved with an unearthly grace, like a willow branch swaying in an unseen wind. This was Saadi Shirazi, his eyes, when they finally caught the light, burning with a pearl of cold, ancient wisdom. Then, stepping out of the darkness behind him, came a shorter, rounder man, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Omar Khayyam, I recognized, his presence radiating a disconcerting blend of joviality and deep-seated sorrow. Next, a whirlwind of white robes and whirling energy appeared, his hair disheveled, his face alight with a fervent intensity. This was Rumi, and he seemed to shimmer like a mirage in the desert heat. Finally, a figure emerged, draped in elegant robes, his lips curved in a sardonic smile, a touch of cruelty dancing in his gaze. Hafez, the poet of love and wine, and tonight, something much more sinister.

Rumi, Saadi, Omar, and Hafez. The names of the four giants of Persian poetry come to visit me in my humble backyard in Dearborn, Michigan. I must be dreaming, I thought, pinching myself discreetly. But the pinch was real, and so were they. No longer in dreams while my eyes are closed, but right here standing before me as clear as my children’s voices playing inside the house. They didn’t speak at first, just stood there, their presence a palpable weight pressing down on me. The air grew colder, the humid warmth replaced by a chilling draft that raised goosebumps on my skin. It was as if the very laws of nature were bending to accommodate these spectral visitors.

The man’s lips curved in a gentle smile. “I am Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi.”

Beside him, a figure with a serene face and a neatly trimmed beard introduced himself with a bow. “I am Saadi Shirazi, at your service.”

The third, a man with a slightly melancholy air, a wine-stained robe loosely draped around him, offered a nod, “Omar Khayyam, at your disposal, if you will.”

The last, a man exuding a rakish charm, his eyes twinkling like distant stars, swept his hand through his dark hair. “And I, your humble servant, am known as Hafez.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a shaky, “Uh… hi? I… are you… how…?” I stammered, unable to form a coherent question.

Rumi chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. “Time, my dear friend, is as fluid as the river’s flow. We are here, drawn by a resonance, a whisper of longing.”

“Longing?” I echoed, feeling completely out of my depth. “I have been having nightmares…I mean dreams of all of you recently, and honestly, I don’t know what’s reality and what’s fantasy anymore.”

“Dreams are a form of madness,” Khayyam chuckled, his voice surprisingly light, like the tinkling of broken glass. “The pursuit of meaning, the thirst for knowledge, are mere distractions from the inevitable.” He held out his hand, and a goblet of dark wine materialized in it. “Care for a drink, mortal? Let us drown in oblivion together.” The wine shimmered with an unnatural luminescence, a dark, tempting promise.

Saadi took a step forward, his expression thoughtful. “Indeed. Longing for truth, for beauty, for the threads of connection that bind us all.”

Omar shook his head. “Or perhaps we were just bored in our eternal abode. A change of scenery, even if it is a suburban backyard, is a welcome diversion.”

Hafez, with a playful glint in his eyes, added, “Or perhaps we were drawn to the scent of tea. I’ve always had a liking for a good brew.”

Then, Saadi, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in my bones, spoke. “We have come,” he intoned, “drawn by the echoes of your thoughts, by the longing for something beyond this.” His hand swept out towards the houses lining Morross Street. “Dream or reality, we are here.”

The fear that had been a knot in my stomach tightened, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I tried to speak, to ask what they wanted, but my voice was trapped, a strangled whisper in the face of their spectral authority.

“May peace always be upon you, traveler of time,” Rumi said, his words carrying a melody I’d only ever heard in recorded Persian poetry. Rumi began to sway, his arms moving in graceful arcs, like he was about to whirl into a trance. His voice, when it resumed, was high and piercing, full of both agony and ecstasy.

“The veil is thin here, where the mundane holds sway, where love has grown cold, and the heart is buried under layers of forgetting.” He moved closer, and I could feel the heat radiating from him, a scorching, searing energy that both repelled and captivated. “We must tear it open, tear it open, and reveal the truth that lies beyond!”

Hafez spoke then, his voice dripping with a honeyed venom. “The truth, my friend, is that there is nothing but despair, and the only escape is to embrace the darkness.” He smiled, a wide, unnerving grin that revealed teeth too sharp, too predatory. “We can show you if you are willing to look.” He held out his hand, his fingers unnaturally long and slender, the nails like polished obsidian. “Come, let us share the secrets of the void.”

Despite the surreal situation, I found myself strangely at ease in their presence. I offered them my remaining tea, which they accepted with gentle nods, careful not to spill a drop.

I finally found my voice, a broken whisper, “So why me? What… what do you want from me?”

Saadi’s voice, still low and powerful, cut through the fear. “We want nothing, and we want everything. Your life, your soul, your potential. We have been bound too long, trapped between worlds. This place, this liminal space between the living and the dead, pulses with an energy that could free us all. We need a conduit, a vessel for our words.”

Khayyam took a long draught of the strange, glowing wine. “Don’t be frightened, little bird. Death is not the end, but merely a transition to something else.” He let out a high, gurgling laugh.

Rumi was whirling faster now, his eyes black pits of swirling void, a vortex threatening to pull me in. “Let go,” he crooned, “let go of your earthly shackles! Embrace the divine dissolution!”

Rumi turned his gaze toward the night sky, a look of deep contemplation etched on his face. “You, like all humans, carry within you a spark of the divine. A longing for meaning, for connection, for the unseen world that whispers just beneath the surface of everyday existence. We feel that resonance in you.”

Saadi added, “We see in you the desire to walk the path of wisdom and understanding. The universe is a vast tapestry, my friend, and your thread is as important as any other.”

Omar, surprisingly, offered a more practical perspective. “Perhaps we’re just here to remind you to enjoy this fleeting moment. Life is like a cup of wine, best savored before it’s drained.” He winked, and for a moment, I could see the young man buried beneath the layers of time.

Hafez, with a flourish, said, “And perhaps we simply wanted a good conversation with someone who appreciates the beauty of words, the dance of metaphor, the secrets hidden in the heart.”

They were all there, standing in my small Michigan backyard, bathed in the pale moonlight.

My breath caught in my throat. “Am I dreaming?” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

Rumi turned his head towards me, his eyes like glowing embers. “Dreaming is but a window into another reality, child. Perhaps tonight, both realities have converged.” His voice was low and resonant, carrying a music that seemed to vibrate through me.

“You can see us?” Omar Khayyam interjected, his goblet glinting in the dim light. He took a thoughtful sip as if judging the vintage of the imaginary wine. “Most can only feel our presence in our words, a subtle nudge in the heart.”

Saadi Shirazi nodded, his gaze kind. “We are here because your heart has called to us, through your love of poetry, and the whispers you cherish and carry of ancient wisdom.”

Hafez smiled, a dazzling, almost painful light in his eyes. “Do not be afraid, dear one. You have opened a door, a portal, and we are but travelers passing through.”

I could feel the logical part of my brain screaming, desperately grasping for a rational explanation. But the deeper part of me, the part that resonated with their words and the ethereal quality of their being, knew that this was something beyond logic. It was magic, a profound and undeniable magic, unfolding in my backyard.

“But…why me? And why here, in Dearborn?” I asked, the fear slowly receding, replaced by a dizzying wonder.

Rumi stepped closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch me, though he didn’t. “The universe has its rhythms, its designs. Dearborn, your backyard – this very garden your father cherished and tended, where you would sit reading our verses and write your own, echoed back to us. It is a space where your soul finds passion and frees itself from the chains of this world. And it is in such spaces that the veils between worlds become thin.”

“Besides,” Omar Khayyam chuckled, swirling the contents of his goblet. “Even poets need a break from eternity. The celestial realms can become tiresome with all the philosophical musings. A change of scenery is appreciated!”

Saadi Shirazi smiled gently at Omar’s levity. “It is more than just a change of scenery, Omar. We have come to offer guidance, to share our wisdom – that which transcends time and place. The world as you know it teeters on the precipice. It needs the wisdom of the heart, now more than ever.”

Hafez’s voice resonated with a subtle melancholy. “We have seen civilizations rise and fall. We have witnessed the ebb and flow of love and loss. We have tasted the bittersweet nectar of existence. And we have learned that the journey is more important than the destination.”

They spoke in turns, their words weaving through the night air, each contributing a different thread to the tapestry of wisdom they were creating. Rumi spoke of the fire of love that burns within each of us, urging me to embrace my emotions, even the painful ones, as a path toward enlightenment. Saadi shared stories of wisdom and virtue, reminding me that true riches lie not in material possessions but in the character we cultivate. Omar, with a mixture of humor and melancholy, cautioned against taking life too seriously, urging me to appreciate the beauty of the present moment and the mysteries it holds. And Hafez, with his playful charm, spoke of the intoxicating power of poetry and the hidden depths of the human heart.

We talked for hours that night, the moon providing a steady glow to our unusual conversation. As they spoke, the stars seemed to grow brighter, as if lending their light to illuminate their words. I found myself drawn into their orbit, captivated by their stories, their poems, and their profound understanding of the human condition. They spoke of joy and sorrow, of faith and doubt, of the endless search for meaning in a world that often felt chaotic and absurd.

I listened, awestruck, as they recited their most famous verses, their words resonating with a new depth and meaning. Rumi’s passionate love poems, Saadi’s wise counsels, Omar’s poignant reflections, and Hafez’s exquisite expressions of longing – they all came alive, not as relics of the past, but as living, breathing truths that spoke directly to my soul. Their words were like a balm to my soul, filling me with a sense of peace and connection I hadn’t realized I craved. They spoke of the universe as a dance of energy, of the interconnectedness of all things, and of the importance of finding beauty and meaning in the ordinary. Hours seemed to melt away like the mist from a morning dew. I felt like I was floating among them, a student in a celestial classroom, learning from masters who had long since returned to the earth. There was a profound sense of connection, a feeling that I was a part of something much larger than myself.

As the first hint of dawn began to paint the eastern sky with shades of pink and orange, Rumi turned to me, his eyes filled with a gentle sadness. “The time for our sojourn is coming to an end, child. We must return to the realms from whence we came.”

“Will you…Will you come back?” I asked, my voice trembling with a strange mix of sorrow and hope.

Rumi said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “But know that we are never truly gone. We remain in the words we left behind and in the hearts of those who seek us.”

Saadi Shirazi laid a hand on my shoulder, a touch that felt as light as a feather yet as powerful as the roots of the oak. “May your path be guided by wisdom and compassion. May your heart forever be filled with light. Remember the beauty you hold within.”

Omar Khayyam raised his goblet in a final toast. “Remember, life is a tapestry, woven with joy and sorrow, with pleasure and pain. Live it fully, with an open heart and a curious mind. And do not forget to savor the wine of life, and never, ever, stop asking questions.”

Hafez, with a final flourish, offered a final, enigmatic statement: “Seek the beloved in all things, and you will never truly be lost. We will always be here, in the echoes of your heart, in the whispers of the wind, in the light of the stars. You need only look for us.”

And then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

With another ripple, the figures faded, replaced by the mundane reality of my backyard, the rose bushes, and the chirping of birds announcing the arrival of a new day. Had it all been a dream? I wasn’t sure. It was all too real. The air still carried a lingering warmth, a subtle vibration that reminded me of the extraordinary visit. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that my life would never quite be the same. Dream or not.

The next morning, instead of going about my usual routine, I found myself reaching for my old book of Persian poetry, and I read, truly read, the words of Rumi, Saadi, Omar, and Hafez, and with each verse, I felt a flicker of recognition, a whisper of connection, a reminder that the universe was far more magical, far more mysterious, and far more connected than I could have ever imagined. The only remnants of their visit were the lingering echoes of their verses in the air, their wit and kindness in my mind, and a profound sense of wonder and gratitude in my heart.

I sit back down looking over the garden, some faint stars still looking down at me, their light now seeming brighter, more profound. Dearborn, Michigan, seemed different somehow. The world, perhaps, had been touched by the sacred, even in the most unexpected of places. I knew, then, that I had been changed forever. I was witness to the convergence of worlds, forever bound to the wisdom of four poets who had found their way to my backyard under the hazy March night. I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that their words had found their mark, had transformed me, and that even though the grey landscape of Dearborn might still surround me, my inner world was now ablaze with the vibrant colors of Persian poetry. And in the quiet of Morross Street, I knew that somewhere, beyond the veil of reality, the poets, with their wisdom and wit, were still watching, waiting, and perhaps, my poetic heart would evoke another visit.

My poetic journey was only just beginning. The poets had come, and I feared their verses had found their mark on my soul. And truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

©Habib Dabajeh