When Civilization Lost Its Soul

I continued reading. Suddenly, a delicate fragrance reached me. It was the scent of roses. Not an ordinary fragrance, but something extraordinarily sweet, as though thousands of freshly blossomed roses had released their perfume into the night. I lifted my head. Where could such a fragrance be coming from? There were no roses in my room.

Then I heard something even more surprising. A cuckoo was calling. Coo-hoo... coo-hoo... A cuckoo, at this hour of the night? Curiosity overcame me. I placed Tagore's book on the table and walked toward the door. Outside, the night was quiet. Moonlight rested gently upon the trees, and a soft breeze carried the mysterious fragrance. I followed the sound of the bird. The farther I walked, the stronger the fragrance became.

And then I stopped. Before me stood an enormous palace. I stared in disbelief. A palace? Here? Beside my own house? How could such a magnificent structure have appeared overnight? Its towering gateways were decorated with intricate carvings. Beautiful arches rose above marble columns. Lanterns illuminated the entrance, and beyond the gates I could see gardens stretching into the distance.

Two guards dressed in traditional Persian attire stood at the entrance. To my astonishment, they bowed. “Welcome,” one of them said. “Our honored guests have been expecting you.” “Expecting me?” I asked. “But how could anyone know I would come here?” The guard smiled. “Those who understand the language of the human heart need no written invitation.”

Before I could ask another question, the great doors opened. I stepped inside. What I saw was beyond description. An immense Persian garden lay before me, illuminated by the silvery light of the moon. At its center stood a magnificent marble fountain. Crystal-clear water rose into the air and descended in delicate streams. Everywhere there were roses—crimson roses, white roses, pink roses, and golden roses. Their fragrance mingled with the cool night air. The gentle sound of flowing water was accompanied by birdsong. It seemed as though I had entered a world untouched by hatred, violence, or human cruelty.

Near the fountain stood three elegantly carved chairs. Three elderly gentlemen were waiting there. As I approached, they rose to greet me. The first spoke. “Welcome, traveler from the twenty-first century. I am Jalaluddin Rumi.” I froze. Rumi? The great mystic poet? Before I could recover from my astonishment, the second gentleman introduced himself. “I am Hafez of Shiraz.” The third smiled warmly. “And I am Sheikh Saadi.”