My Morning Visitor ♥ 🐾 ♥

I am an early riser. I like to get up from bed at the same time as the sun rises above the woodland horizon over out in the east. Gently I fling open my windows to take in as much of the stirring newness of the morning air as I can, while admiring that inimitable and personal quietness veiling through the world, as if it were whispering into my ears that the tranquil unsounding only belonged to me and no one else.

Our home is close to the enchanting English countryside, but we still live in the town and that is why I reserve our fertile and beautiful garden as a room in itself – albeit a roofless and breathing room – to which I feel the greatest connection to. It is my most cherished part of my home. So, care to imagine how my eyes widened and mouth fell agape when, this morning whilst I was busily brushing my teeth, that I should chance upon my first ever sighting of a fox in our back garden! Furtively prowling down the bosky path that cut through the middle of the garden, this magnificent Mr Foxy wore a ravishing reddish-brown furry coat, he had a set of pointy ears that stuck out of his inquisitive face and from which a dignified and sharp nose protruded, and a buoyant tail bobbed from behind him which I noticed possessed a tip as white as snow. When he turned round and stared at me, the vigorousness of the black that dwelled in his eyes came at me without warning. I, in that moment, could not have received a more lucid testimony to his wild origins. This was a creature of stealth, famed equally for his notorious pestilence as he was for his cunning trickery, an untameable and opportunistic predator, and the bane of all farmers everywhere.

When his eyes locked onto mine this morning all thoughts of my civilised life vanished. I am not quite sure why or how he managed to expel out of me all those measly pressing concerns of the day. The entire unfolding of the morning had paused itself, or so it seemed, leaving a strange duet in mid-air purified from all reason and utterly wordless.

Mr Foxy stared.

I stared back.

He stared back some more.

The time was precisely 6.09am (BST) and I do not know what fancy caught the grip of my imagination but I wished desperately that by making note of the time I would somehow coerce a satellite to orbit over that patch of sky precisely below my garden so that someone would have the means to document this unshakeably curious encounter!

With toothbrush stranded inside my mouth I was about to rush away from the window to fetch my camera, but Mr Foxy had already leapt miles in front of my plotting thoughts and had made a swift dash down the path, casually brushing his bushy tail past the watchful figurine of Mr Peter Rabbit before disappearing into the dense shrubbery amassed at the far end of the garden. I was terribly fizzled when my squinting eyes could no longer make out his alluring coat of reddish-brown. He had melted into the mess of green swathes.

Fumbling with the backdoor lock I stepped into the cool climate of early morning silence, only sliced clean as a company of adorable sparrows and finches hurriedly flew out of the leafy nestles of my green gage plum tree. I dashed down to the bottom of the garden and when I got there I found that there was not a single morsel of a sign to say that just moments ago a most fascinating and stunning creature, a child of raw wilderness, had fleetingly appeared before my eager pupils.

The mystery that was left in the wake of my departing and handsome stranger did not simply just linger in the air, it only ripened itself and amplified. I inspected the reinforced fencing and could not for the life of me figure out how my surprise visitor had even made entry into our garden in the first place. Judging by the tall height of the wooden planks that bordered every side of the garden there was no chance of an animal like a fox to jump over it – even the neighbour’s cat cannot pull that feat! I scratched my chin in deep thought and walked back to the house. The sky had already brightened by many magnitudes without my realising it. The houses began to be drenched in dawn sunshine. I, however, was still in the pitch dark as to the question of his visitation. It did not cause discomfort, rather it poured into my heart an uncustomary light of delicious tension, as if it were that my four-legged fellow symbolised the sanctity of abiding by that code of readership whereby chapters of a story are never skipped and then returned to, but followed patiently in the order as given by the author. All that I could do was joyfully accept that this first sighting of Mr Foxy in the plush paradise of my garden constituted the thrilling words of a new chapter.

Alas, I have no photograph to show You of my transient visitor. I reckon he was astute enough to know that if he were photographed the unalloyed mystique of his appeal would not be the same. It would be sobbingly diminished. What a clever chap, I must say! However, what I do have for You, in place of his portraiture, is a dandelion seed head. On first inspection it does not pop out any differently to all the other dandelion seed heads in my garden and I would not hold it against You if You were to think nothing of it.

But, then again, there are things called stories and they have the power to conduct magic into whatever they touch.

When Mr Foxy made his abrupt haste down the garden path his reddish-brown body brushed past the dandelion seed head. At that breakneck speed it would have been reasonable to think that all the fine feathery parachutes that cloistered closely to form the recognisable globe of the young dandelion plant would have dramatically come apart and scattered into the anonymity of the air around it.

It did not. He left no trace of himself in the things that ought to have been affected by the slightest of his movements. Why would he? He is a clever fox. He knew perfectly well that I was a Storyteller and now that You have come to the end of these words You, too, have caught a fleeting glimpse of my morning enigma, a dawn peep of a desired autumn… ♥♥♥    

 

Morning Visitor

“… He left no trace of himself in the things that ought to have been affected by the slightest of his movements…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Garden | Winchester | UK 2016

Re-Visioning The Multiverse Hypothesis Chapter Five: The Constant

Sometimes You can hear people call out to You even when it is plain obvious that they are not in the room or anywhere near why You are. Rotating the head round this way and then that way, and a squiggly frown undulating across the forehead with the fixedness of a resolute caterpillar, when voices without faces reach the ear it nearly always throws people off.

It certainly put Alice in another barrel of confusion!

She had barely taken the time to reflect properly on the two giant orbs of marmalade that soothingly hung in the evening sky that her grandma began calling out to her. Her voice floated over the wall and it was more like a soft murmuring rather than that of a telling-off shout which, of course, came as no stupendous surprise to her considering where she was. The wall was much more than an unassuming and rugged partition of bricks and stones, and its unfathomable origin and design, Alice summed, held the answer to understanding and accounting for these strange contrasts between the two gardens. That is why the voice of her grandma, though only next door, seemed as if it were coming from someplace that should have been added onto the edge of a map, but it never got round to being done.

She did not want to leave the garden because wherever she cast her eyes there were things that whispered to be known, lucid hints that many more discoveries were waiting to be found. Alice could have done with more time. For instance, she had not examined all the fruits to determine whether they contained centres embedded with seeds. She saw a block of paving that had come undone from the rest of the geometric ground and it occurred to her that perhaps instead of a sanctuary of snails huddled and hibernating under its base, there might instead be a still and resting kaleidoscope of silvery butterflies whose wings were constructed of such crystals that it made them as enduring as diamonds and thus the massive weight of stones upon their bodies left them perfectly preserved and unscratched. There was simply more to see and do in this garden, however, she knew that it was much more important that she did not have her grandma waiting. She would never do anything to hurt or worry her, and with those affirming thoughts in mind she turned round and looked back at the wall. Deficient of face and limbs and speech, the wall had a fascinating way of telling her that it was time to climb over again and that she should remember that if ever she were to encounter another wall like this one it would never ever lead her to this garden. A never-ending story of infinite walls and gardens, it was a sombre revelation and that is why she tore herself away from the wall to steal one final glace at the garden that was both familiar and unfamiliar, at the same time.

In the corner adjacent to the wall she spotted a wild patch of flowers that were messily dispersed amongst skeletal stems of thorny rosebushes yet to spurt out their lustrous blooms. It was very peculiar of her not to have mingled her attentions there first, for she loved flowers the most, their heady scents and frilly petals and sweet centres to which bees made pilgrimages to made them extraordinary in her eyes and many a night she imagined that it was flowers that proved midnight sanctum to travelling fairies.

She could hear her grandma call out to her again and hesitated for a second. No. She had come this far and it would be a terrible shame if she deprived herself the chance to take a peek at the flowers. She promised to herself that she would be quick and so she hopped over to the wildflowers and bent down to inspect them. A gentle breeze blew through her, as if the flowers were greeting her in their own special way. It was when she cupped her palms and with adoration held the neck of a bright yellow tulip shining in the hue of fresh custard, that a sliver of fear trickled down her throat. What if these flowers did not arouse scent? What if they were barren and odourless? It would not matter to her as much if the flowers that she held were known in her world not to carry sweet fragrances as then she would feel as if she were not missing out anything. But these were tulips and in her world they brought her much happiness because they smelt like the chrysalis of new mornings.

She waited for the next cycle of inhalation and when it came she dipped her nose into the heart of the flower and took a deep sharp sniff, and her head became filled, as if she had sucked the contents of the entire world.

A miracle! She was happy!

Perhaps the scents of flowers knew how to climb walls too, she thought. Her lips parted slightly and she let a faint smile pass, the sort kept for oneself only.

Before the languishing light rolled into the garb of night, Alice crept back up the wall and once more joined her world. Tonight it would be her turn to tell grandma a story.  ♥♥♥

 

Re-Visioning The Multiverse Hypothesis Chapter Five: The Constant

“… she cupped her palms and with adoration held the neck of a bright yellow tulip the hue of fresh custard…”

 

 

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016

This Is Red Leader, Do You Copy?

Though I was sat on the bench this evening watching the sun set down in the west
My pomegranate jewelled heart doused in excitement, the fire inside me blessed
I do not care if geek is what the world calls me, but truly, how can one keep it in
Today my gang and I laid eyes on Star Wars, a tidal rose scents my skin
And no matter which way I look, the nostalgia of the saga gloriously seethes through
I cannot tell if that was a bird or the Millennium Falcon that trailed in twilight’s blue
Oh, and the garden, a terrestrial citrus circus of surprises in the fading light not so sloppy
For the Red Cosmos flower induced my Voice to call out, “This is Red Leader, do You copy…?”  ♥

This Is Red Leader, Do You Copy?

Oh, and the garden, a terrestrial citrus circus of surprises in the fading light not so sloppy
For the Red Cosmos flower induced my Voice to call out, “This is Red Leader, do You copy…?”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Garden | Winchester | UK 2015

On Winged Hands, Henna Is My Name

My Dearest and Most Beloved Reader, 

As part of the wonderful and vibrant Eid festivities taking place at my house today, my Mumsy and sister had their hands decorated in the dye of the henna plant. None of us are expert appliers of the ink but that did not matter the least, the deep colour that came through was a magnificent testament in ink of the unbroken Love that existed between us. I had left my hands unpainted as I was the chief photographer of the day however to have seen everyone else awashed and blessed in the Orange poetry of henna was more than enough to have my heart grow beyond the earthly cage of my body.

Eid Mubarak, Eid Mubarak, Eid Mubarak… :)) :)) :))
Your Mazzy xxx


Unfulfilled in Life I am when left to idle flutter on some garden shrub or tree
Desire is mine that I be crushed, pestle pounded and set me free
I pray by day, pray by night to become the daybreak to skin, the Orange Pilgrim of Stain
O ‘tis not death, People: I am the Bride of Change, the butterfly released to kiss the sugar cane… :))

Henna Is My Name 1

“… Desire is mine that I be crushed, pestle pounded and set me free…”

My Name Is Henna 2

“… I pray by day, pray by night to become the daybreak to skin, the Orange Pilgrim of Stain…”

"... I am the Bride of Change, the butterfly that emerges to kiss the sugar cane…"

“… I am the Bride of Change, the butterfly released to kiss the sugar cane…”

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | My Home | Winchester | UK 2015

I, Your Flower Of Kashmir

Last night my entire family and I were tightly glued once again to our telly as we excitedly tuned into another episode of Voice Of India 2015. Music shares a special place in our home, at any one time I can guarantee You that someone, somewhere in the house, will have compiled a playlist for the day ahead which can be heard rebelliously thump-thumping against the walls, gently streaming into the kitchen under the aromatic scents of food being cooked or, like a reassuring lullaby, cast a sweet end note to the emerging deep indigos of the twilight sky. In my family music is truly our secondary source of oxygen.

So returning back to the incidents of the night previous! Just as we had given up on the possibility of hearing a voice alluring enough to make the curtains of our heart shimmer with tender touches, an unassuming chap by the name of Pawandeep came onto the stage and I tell You no lie, as soon as he let out the first melodic murmurs everyone in the room froze. I ABSOLUTELY fell in love with his Voice and the song but at the time no one dared to exchange our gasping praise, refusing to speak over his performance because subconsciously a collective pact had been agreed – not a moment should be diverted to anything else but on his limelight existence.

I believe things happen for a reason. When Pawandeep sang, I knew someone out there was singing through him to reach me and what that did was beautifully unforgivable – ‘he’ whispered into my ear that I was to melt my human form away and become as like the mountainous Flower of Kashmir…  :))

LINK TO ORIGINAL TRACK: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-Ho3ZOWDxc&feature=youtu.be

 

I, Your Flower Of Kashmir

“… When Pawandeep sang, I knew someone out there was singing through him to reach me and what that did was beautifully unforgivable – ‘he’ whispered into my ear that I was to melt my human form away and become as like the mountainous flower of Kashmir… “

 

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2015

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Ahoy There! We Found Treasure!

Might I take the liberty of assuring You that us three girls have legs to moor us to ground
But on this particular occasion we dipped beneath waters, searched without sound
Three mermaids on a quest to retrieve five gifts of Orange quality
Undiscovered by sailor men, we conquered intrepidly
Circled round jagged rocks, the armour of seahorses on maiden skin
Songs of fishermen bellowed deep down, caught echoes against our fin
An underwater fountain opened, cobalt blue light showed five Orange balls
Hastily we rushed at them, no time to spare for calls
Victory shimmered in our brine blood, our heads rose back to shore
Citrus joy spilled forth from hearts, O what did our eyes saw!
Do not be glazed, what we present are not trinkets of insignificance
The number ‘5’ on a ring linked to an Orange circle is no coincidence
If Magic is in Your blood, Your imagination shall soar like the richest monsoon shower
A Synesthetic eye sees gold in dust, an Orange Kadam flower…


EPILOGUE & NEWS:
Whereas my account of lost treasure discovered is of the fictional variety, news has just been released of a real-life case of ancient treasure resurfacing once again after a span of thousands of years! Quite close to my home town of Winchester, Avebury is famed for its largest collection of European Neolithic stone circles – three rings to be precise – whose function is still the cause of heated debate amongst scholars and archaeologists. In the article that follows the link below, it reports the finding of houses on the site, potentially those that were lived in by the construction workers of these enigmatic stone circles. Mr Snashall adds, “I could count the number of middle Neolithic houses that have been found on the fingers of one hand.” FIVE houses, I take it then! The photograph provided by the BBC is as candid as you can get: Fieldworkers engaged in backbreaking labour for the pursuit of historical knowledge wonderfully canvased by a RED makeshift gate and my beloved rolling hills of green-green England… :))

LINK: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-wiltshire-33686240    

 

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Ahoy There! We Found Treasure!

“… If Magic is in Your blood, Your imagination shall soar like the richest monsoon shower
A Synesthetic eye sees gold in dust, an Orange Kadam flower… “

 

Photography & Poetry:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories |The  Needles Amusement Park | Isle Of Wight 2015

 

Trekking With Reina: A Portrait With The Eyes Of Helios

Click once more on the photograph to have your screen inundated in the richness of yellow flowers, in celebration of finding long-lost friends… :))

Japan is in my soul. I cannot verbalise in any comprehensible degree how that came to be, but I am certain that my love for this faraway island nation of the east, of whose solemn, graceful and meditative natural beauty has kindled curiosity and inspiration into the hearts of artists and travellers since time immemorial, has lived in me as an enduring love story from as long as I can remember. I can express to you with undaunted candidness that I often find myself wondering whether in some other life I might have been a dweller, a pilgrim of mountain roads and bamboo forests, of this enchanting chain of archipelagos. Do we not all feel, one time or another, an unexplainable tug of the heart towards places that seem to have no outwardly connection to us?

My prelude was on Japan however the short story I present to you today is not set there, in fact, it is set closer to home. Meet Reina, a very good friend and sister of mine who hails from Tokyo, Japan. It was nearly ten years ago that Reina and I first met in my town where she had come to study at a local university. Many oceans away from her home, Reina was always the gutsy and indomitably plucky lady and she quickly found that she settled in comfortably, making many friends along the way – including me! As that famous British idiom goes that describes how well two people get along with each other, so it was that Reina and I ‘got on like a house on fire!’ Adventurers, bookworms, comediennes, and fiercely outspoken, the two of us are like battleships with a common purpose! When Reina had finished her studies she sadly returned back to Japan and, at a time when neither of us knew what Facebook was, we decided to stay in touch via emails and written letters. I remember hopping about with the bounce of a hysterical kangaroo whenever a letter would arrive from my good sister, the Japanese postal stamp glistening from the corner and I would inspect it as though it were a jewel encrusted in a meteorite! I know, how very odd of me, but genius minds are always breaking the rules, it is part and parcel of our constitution! Giggle, giggle!

Alas, many years ago my email system was compromised, including losing the details of her home address. We lost touch. It was a devastating blow, a tributary of friendship simply vanished into thin air. The years passed by although it did little to wither my memories of my sister and I prayed that someday we would be reunited again. Unlike the tale of Sachi whereupon detective work aided my progression to finding her thanks to one mutual friend, locating Reina proved to be more challenging. I was not acquainted with any of her other friends from University. BUT, I did not relinquish that precious bird whose name is Hope. The prayers of a good heart must always be heard, it is the terms and conditions on which this Universe operates on. One day, Facebook arrived into my sphere. To this day I am uninterested by it however, it has served me remarkably well in drawing me towards people that Destiny wishes me to remain eternally connected to. I remember laughing with ecstatic joy at the silliness when Reina sent me a ‘Friend Request’. How stupid is that phrase in the context of my story. True Friendships are not ‘added’, ‘requested’ or ‘deleted’ like you would to a mathematical sum! How naively insane is this superiorly superficial virtual world! Nevertheless, we found each other and, I hate to admit it, but thank you Facebook! Yuk, did I just say that?! Giggle, giggle! I am pleased to present to you, my dearest readers, this beautiful portrait of Reina, underscoring a grand summer reunion whose backdrop colour of yellow, the colour of Helios – the garment of the sun god of the ancients – reflects the epic magnitude of the happiness that blossomed inside my heart when I saw my sister again after a long stretch of ten years! I waited patiently in the knowledge that my prayers would be heard someday. It has been fulfilled.

Permit me to end my words on a lighter, comical note! Reina knows very well that I am completely loopy about incense, my senses enslaved to the cacophony of fragrances out there in the natural world, all ingrained solidly in my blood courtesy of my passion for gardening and the great outdoors. Well, whilst enjoying a hearty meal at the restaurant she whisked out a wrapped box. As you may very well guess I was uncontrollably excited and rushed at it at a speed to rival light itself! Inside was the most exquisite padded box, unintelligible Japanese script glistened on the surface and I had Reina translate them to me. A sudden stab of dismay hit me as I wished to myself how extraordinary it would be if I knew how to speak and read fluently the tongue native to those enchanting floating worlds! Carefully I opened the box to reveal tracing paper and a little card of the name of the manufacturer. So primly presented, I loathed to dislodging anymore, but Reina looked on expectantly so I gave in! Lifting the protective papers off, my jaw fell to the ground as my eyes fell under the enchantments of the contents: a series of neatly wrapped cylinders, each with a sticker on top and aligned accurately with the others. Jokingly I exclaimed, “ Reina, you know I do not smoke and never will so, on what occasion did you think it right to gift me a box of Cuban cigars?” We burst out giggling and the waitress flashed a puzzled look before proceeding on with her duties. In each cylinder was a tightly packed collection of incense sticks, swiftly I took one out and sniffed it. It was Eaglewood…

P.S. I dreamt last night of another reunion with an unmet but long-lost friend of mine and he had braved the arduous journey to my home. Destiny, oh my, you do know how to surprise me… :))

Trekking With Reina: A Portrait With The Eyes Of Helios

“… I am pleased to present to you, my dearest readers, this beautiful portrait of Reina, underscoring a grand summer reunion whose backdrop colour of yellow, the colour of Helios – the garment of the sun god of the ancients – reflects the epic magnitude of the happiness that blossomed inside my heart when I saw my sister again after a long stretch of ten years…”


Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories |Summer Reunion Series | Southern Hampshire | UK 2015

A Love Story In 1-2-3 Frames

A pleasurable act of self-indulgence to many, I normally loathe having my photograph taken because I find it awfully unstimulating and that is why I hardly ever fiddle with my profile picture in Facebook and why it is likely that in party albums my face is pretty much non-existent, even though I might have been the one to generate the most noise!! My passion and calling is steadfastly rooted in the telling of stories to enchant and entertain and my place, therefore, I take with a dimpled-smile behind the lens and the pen. However, if there is an urge to tell a story about me then it is on such rare occasions I deem it appropriate to turn the camera on myself. I did do such a thing two years ago, on the day after my birthday. I wanted to convey what felt to me to be the most ancient story of my life, indeed the recurrent theme of my Destiny. I made this photograph my cover photo in Facebook and not barely moments passed that I began to be the recipient of amusing friend requests, attracting the attention of many a male stranger who would start their preliminary email along the lines of, “Hi, you’re hot…” or “What a pretty lady…” or “I am lying on my bed as I look at you…” or, well, you ought to catch my drift! How insufferably boring to hear such monotonic flattery and how I sincerely pitied them all. As a synesthetic, I was able to peer through their words and into their souls where I was overwhelmed with sadness for I stood in front of vast black holes, silently but violently swirling in their inner universe, ripping every ounce of integrity into orphaned shreds. Men, whose hunger for meaning had been tragically contorted into lustful pursuits.

However, I foresaw with my third eye that something far more superior and magical would come out of my public placement of this story of pictures. It would be a beacon that would call my soul mate back to me for only he would be the one to READ the story from left to right and thus recognise, as like when morning mists disperse to reveal entire world of verdant forests, who I truly was.

In succinct chronological order composed of 1-2-3 frames I devised my ancient story purely out of three prints splashed out in rich sumptuous colour in which a rose sewn of magnificent petals unites with the black ocean of my hair – a boatman moored to his Home. In this life I patiently and faithfully wait for him to return once again so as to distil peace to the anarchy of the raging waves of my dark sea hair. Why do I feel now, more than ever, that he is close by…?

A Love Story In 1-2-3 Frames

“… three prints splashed out in rich sumptuous colour in which a rose sewn of magnificent petals unites with the black ocean of my hair – a boatman moored to his Home. In this life I patiently and faithfully wait for him to return once again so as to distil peace to the anarchy of the raging waves of my dark sea hair…”

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2012/2014

 

Narnia In My Mind

I am willing to challenge with cheery cheekiness the establishment of explorers everywhere and declare that the most enchanting streets, lanes and pathways are to be found right under our noses – well, above, to be precise. In our heads, in that gooey jelly that you would quite happily not want to associate yourself with if someone were to present it to you in a clinical jar, is the most intricate piece of architecture known to Itself – the human brain and, its soul, the elusive untouchable jewel of all mysteries that is the mind and which to this day is the source of many head-scratching debates between scientists, philosophers, artists and curious folk alike.

I have no inclination whatsoever at this moment to produce an unsightly dissection of a brain or pull up a cognitive map of the neuronal pathways taken from some of the most advanced instruments available to modern science. Fascinating though these perspectives of analysis are, and to me they have been as such since I am a Psychology graduate but, more so than the academic, I am a relentless dweller of the imaginative mind. Like my fellow Oxfordian and the great polymath, Lewis Carroll, I too exercise the morning habit of conjuring up six impossible things! What a wonderful way to nourish the soul of the mind! After many years of such conditioning, I can proudly say that I am able to draw an impression of my imaginative universe and thankfully, my humble photography skills can be of service here. One chilly morning, on my walks, I came across these tiny snowdrop-like flowers growing out from an old brick wall. They appeared to me like the stringy neuronal pathways of the human brain, except, they twinkled with enchanting secrets, as if a whole undiscovered land lay buried along its canals.

 

Narnia In My Mind

“They appeared to me like the stringy neuronal pathways of the human brain, except, they twinkled with enchanting secrets, as if a whole undiscovered land lay buried along its canals…”

 

Immediately I knew that I had been gifted with a symbolic representation of my own creative mind. It was a land that I had travelled back and forth since childhood, a place where I could endow animals to talk and let eternal winters to reign, where the Faith of one little girl, burning as bright as the flame of a lamppost, can change the course of history…

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2014  

The Mother Of Roses

When my Amma (Mother) gently holds any rose in our garden she does so in a manner that I believe would convince any flower that it were the very last of its kind on earth.  It is here that I am able to witness in the flower’s great unfolding of satin valleys and feminine undulations the song of its joyful vulnerability because it knows how purely it is Loved…

 

The Mother Of Roses

“… I am able to witness in the flower’s great unfolding of satin valleys and feminine undulations the song of its joyful vulnerability because it knows how purely it is Loved…”

 

Photograph & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | UK 2014