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Once someone asked a dervish to portray
The nature of this world in which we stray.
He said: “This various world is like a toy –
A coloured palm-tree given to a boy,
But made of wax – now knead it in your fist,
And there’s the wax of which its shapes consist;
The lovely forms and colours are undone,
And what seemed many things is only one.
All things are one – there isn’t any two;
It isn’t me who speaks;
it isn’t you.”