a book. As ture of a tree, urbed t I’m not a page . Since I’m not representing somet comes to mind is t my picture o a rate t  I secretly take pride in t—but tmost fear and embarrassment.

    . tial reason for my loneliness is t I don’t even kno of a story, but I fell from tumn. Let me tell you about it:

    Falling from My Story Like a Leaf Falls in Fall   Forty years ago, tatomans as est patron-king of t of painting, began to gro ry and painting; furt drinking coffee, and naturally, opped ed old geezer, ransferred al from tabriz, ory, to Kazvin so it toman armies. One day ely swore off wine, handsome young boys

    and painting, er t s aste for coffee,  his mind.

    turists, est masterpieces in ty-year period in tabriz, scattered like a covey of partridges to oties.

    Saan Ibraed t gifted among to Mastled turists’  a marvelous illuminated and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of test poet in  during tamerlane. Saelligent and ted er to  t book and angrily ousted  of Governor of Maso ty of Kain, before sending o to of anger. tors of Maso oties and regions, to ts worksans and princes.

    Miraculously, an Ibra remain unfinised librarian. travel on o S master gilders lived; take a couple pages to Isfa elegant calligrapalik script; afterains till  all to Bukure’s composition and  master painter o commission one of its ers to paint from memory ts and leaves; visiting anot,  o inscribe, in gold Rika script, ture; finally, o to Kain, wraveling, an Ibr