The Old Man And The Jigsaw

An old man of eighty five was he, that spine-curved hunchback Mr Jones
He lived his lonely years inside a tower block slewed of sluggish tones
Four ugly damp walls watched him as he grappled with his mouldy food of mash
No pension to speak of so he’d beg neighbours for some petty cash
His eyes smite by fogs of cataracts and cancer bludgeoned blossoms in his lung
Ears teased in rude bells of tinnitus and blisters blazed on his tongue
And ghastly gashes screamed all over the lining fabric of his chair
In spite of this he sat down and gazed at the box with the sincerest of care

The night outside filled with revellers who revolted in a drunken spree
Mr Jones, in his darken den, sought a moth-eaten jigsaw for company
Stroking the cover like an old acquaintance, or tune plucked out of memory
A chore it was to lift the lid, his struggle oil-slicked in drudgery

Inside scattered dormant the crumbed chaos of many a chipped part
He reached out shakily and yet did not know where to start
And so the world around him vanished as part by part the picture grew:
A tall lighthouse striped of ivory and red, a sea of sapphire blue
And three o’clock, four o’clock the night spun on and on
His rickety fingers trudged ahead, this old man of anon
Ah! A sandy shore and a harbour and swooping seagulls hunt for bread
Chuckling children laze with sweet treats, the smell of sea-salt is widespread

Only a few pieces to go, but the old man is stabbed by deafening pain
His wrinkled palm clutches up to his chest, his both eyes bulge out insane
Life seethes out its finality on the old man’s fingers cold
Wills the last piece into place and lets the whole scene unfold
A long sigh mingles with the room and crashing down came the chair
The neighbour hears from the floor below but he does not give the slightest care

A week had passed and the paper boy knows that something is terribly amiss
Calls the bobbies first but they send him away with an incredulous hiss
So the paper boy braves on alone, prises door open wide with a paperclip
Stomps in through to find a room, on floor an empty chair with rip
And over on the wooden table the boy caught sight of something – a jigsaw of an Arabian sea
And bobbing along waters sapphire blue, a celestial dhow carrying I and he…  ♥♥♥  

The Old Man And The Jigsaw

“… And over on the wooden table the boy caught sight of something – a jigsaw of an Arabian sea…”

 

Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016
Photography: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Guernsey | Channel Islands | 2014 

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Trésors Du Louvre: Une Histoire D’Amour Echo (Treasures Of The Louvre: A Love Story Echoed)

Diary 9: Trésors Du Louvre: Une Histoire D’Amour Echo (Treasures Of The Louvre: A Love Story Echoed)

I am as comfortable in the chambers of museums as I am so in my own home, these magnificent kingdoms of treasures for the intellect, heart and soul remedy my thirst to be enlightened by the worlds of the past but in doing so they invariably strike new lines of enquiry and thus I relish, as opposed to writhe, at the prospect that I shall never know everything there is to know because I am a creature of endless questioning.  So sorry to be a pain!

It would have registered as a gross misconduct of epic proportions had I not compiled a series of photographic tales pertaining to the world’s largest and most visited museum, The Louvre. I have picked up the rather mind-boggling fact that if anyone were to be mad enough to methodically analyse each artefact in its impressive collections it would take approximately 9 months to scale the entire lot! I actually would fancy myself having such a job although I suppose my absence from the classroom would not be tolerated and I can imagine demonstrations of student protests for my return, consequently driving the Principle bonkers and eventually leading to the demise of the reputation for which my college is known! Yikes!

Once an established fortress in the 12th Century, whose crypts are remarkably still in existence below ground level and which I explored with glee, later reincarnated its purpose as royal palaces, residence of some rather decadent French royals until a little something called the French Revolution came along and the entire colossal expanse of the premises was transformed into a public museum, decreed as a centre of excellence and prestige for the gathering of artefacts that were to be on presentation for the betterment of public knowledge. And that is why I have managed to bring You some choice nuggets – not literally of course! – from my visitation, otherwise had Louis XVI still been on the throne You might have seen my defeated face on the gallows! Yikes again!

Before You get all excited I should like to inform You at the outset that I HAVE taken a photograph of the Mona Lisa HOWEVER I am disinclined to reveal it to You because after personally viewing it myself I am extremely of the position that it is imbued with such inexplicable mystery and magic that, for those who have not observed her in person, must do so in their lifetime. My photograph of it hardly does any justice to De Vinci’s masterpiece and since he is a fellow polymath I shall honour furthermore and state that to experience the notoriously elusive Mona Lisa smile You must pay her a visit Yourself! Giggle, giggle!

But, there were some other world famous artefacts that I was drawn to even more and whose photo diary I shall impart to You because encoded in their art are the compelling bridges that link You and I. Today, I present to You my personal favourite, The Winged Victory of Samothrace, a 2nd Century Greek marble sculpture of moonshine quality depicting the Goddess Nike which translates as Victory. Built not only in her honour but to commemorate a naval victory over a battle that occurred on sea, she stands tall, adorned in flowing drapery kissed by her beloved sea breezes, her wings outstretched but her feet touching ground, suggesting that the artist intended the viewer to form the impression that she was descending onto the prow of the winning ship. I do wonder if that ship was entitled ‘Win-chester’? Oh so sorry for the mild deviation!

It never once lessened the powerful impact the statue had on the senses despite it missing a head and both arms. The anonymity only served to cast an aura of universalism and the unperceivable mystery of the Divine. It is believed that her right arm was raised, cupped around her mouth as she shouted “Victory!” to her fleet.  The tip of her ring finger has been discovered and is located next to the statue. I was in wordless awe at how something so physically incomplete, missing the parts we associate with the movement of Life itself, was complete in perfection and beauty and in the conveyance of its authenticity of triumph and joy. Pieces missing and yet everything fell into place, I looked up at Nike and felt one more mirror had been placed in front of me, she and I were in the same boat.

Millions of tourists had gathered close to her with their weaponry, their selfie-sticks, risking their lives so it seemed just so that they can acquire that prized photograph of their face next to Nike. It was impossible for me to capture anything in that hive of crowds and my limited focal distance on Laika implied that a tactical zoom shot was out of the question. Yet, the lightbulb is always switched on above my head and very rapidly a new idea gave rise. I would move away, as faraway as possible from the bustling crowd and see what gifts of sight would proffer onto my lap.

Skipping behind everyone and climbing up the stairs I re-orientated my eyes at Nike and….. BEHOLD, I saw her, for the first time, in a completely different light because she no longer appeared as a standalone artefact, she had become peacefully at one with the hallowed walls of the Louvre itself. Instead of the rushing motion and ecstasy of Victory previously sensed, there was now stillness, peace and humility, a calm awakening to the Light of the Eternal Divine. I chose to entitle this scene ‘A Love Story Echoed’ to capture in concise words my belief that the yearning of the Soul for the Divine is time and time again qualitatively recreated in the longings of all Lovers who live from the well of a Good Heart… :))

EPILOGUE: Nike is one of many strong female figures who inspired me to take the teacher’s chair and sprinkle Good Magic on those who came through my door so that they too may recognise of the moonshine wings that grow out of their backs, that they were meant for liberation, for flying. The link below will direct You to what I was once, on the left, and what I am today, on the right, always with the moonshine blossom of Tea in cupped hand… :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/MatildaTheMusical/photos/a.181882601890613.47160.120545018024372/897515373660662/?type=1&theater

Treasures Of The Louvre: A Love Story Echoed

“… she no longer appeared as a standalone artefact, she had become peacefully at one with the hallowed walls of the Louvre itself. Instead of the rushing motion and ecstasy of Victory previously sensed, there was now stillness, peace and humility, a calm awakening to the Light of the Eternal Divine…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Musée Du Louvre | Paris | France 2015

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

On the request of a very special Friend of mine I am re-posting this diary entry chronicling my adventure to an enchanting maritime kingdom, whose land was unfamiliar and new, and yet I fell into its arms with the readiness of a homeward pilgrim. I know YOU will shudder a smile as You open the Link below containing the latest post from the island: I had stood at this very playground, but tonight, a great spinning temple ringed in red has arisen, as if by Magic… :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/VisitTheNeedles/photos/a.1015665945151433.1073741908.172664322784937/1016709061713788/?type=1&theater

‘Lost – sorry – Lot’s Wife’
Mazzy x

I am the daughter of an island nation. The British isles may not have conjured into existence my ancestral line but she is my Mother nevertheless and I have become of the belief that it is her jagged hemline of rocky coasts reaching in every direction, ragingly glossed over by the force of the ocean’s voice in the form of tidal waves, that is the explanation behind why my heart is forever a magnet towards the kingdoms of the sea. Like a helpless silver fish that squirms and wriggles in the fisherman’s net in the futile attempt to free itself, I, too, cannot be landlocked for too long a time and must seek out the tasty alertness of salty air, the noisy shrills of wayward gulls, the avarice of wet sands and the mysterious plaits of algae before my soul succumbs to stagnation.  It is as though my spirit only agreed to occupy human form on the condition that in life it may seek out its borderless essence in the infinite watery mirrors of the seas.

The present photo-diary is but an abridged version of a recent expedition to an island off the coast of southern England. Famed for its boat building history, its fair pull of poets and writers, and the once location of Queen Victoria’s summer palace, the Isle of Wight is a diamond-shaped island that floats quite happily on Channel waters. The geographical signatures one is struck by immediately upon coming here are the sight of windswept majestic cliffs, some made of coarse stones whereas others are sandy and soft. They rise as far as the eye can see and, if you are observant enough, you might even be lucky enough to spot the fossilised remains of dinosaur bones, the island is an indisputable haven for budding palaeontologists!

The most famous landmark on the Isle of Wight and the first Susie, Agnes and myself were determined to venture towards is called ‘The Needles’. Situated on the western coast, these comprise of three pillars of chalk that defiantly rise out of the sea, not at all far from Alum Bay. There is an adorable Lighthouse on the outer end of the formation and I would have dearly loved to climb it and look out from its top window, pretending to guide the lost out at sea back to the comforting embrace of the shore. For those with an appetite for history, you may be intrigued to know that there is a fourth ‘needle’ called ‘Lot’s Wife’ but it collapsed in a ferocious storm in 1764. Ironically, it is this submerged rock that shares the strongest resemblance to a needle rather than the three that are visible to the eye. Lot, himself, is a biblical figure, cited in both Christianity and Islam, venerated as a prophet and messenger of God.

As I silently stood on the edge of the grassy hill overlooking The Needles I felt as though I had come one step closer to solving the mystery of why my heart was so persistently drawn to the abstruse beauty of the sea. Is there a needle out there, below the hidden blue depths that once belonged to me, whose powers are pen-like and curative? And then it came to me, in slow hushes, in sweet trickles, the memory that indeed such a magical needle was mine and that no matter where I found myself in the world I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited…  :))

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

“… I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited… “

 

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

Jen & Mazzy WOZ here :))

Ah, where did ‘Jen Jens’ and I voyage to carve such a grammatically incorrect post
You’re counting on me saying ‘We stomped to the coast!’
But that’s not quite the answer, shall I tell You where?
Why on the sand dunes of Tatooine – nope, ‘tis a lie I declare!
The actual location was on a sand dune on red ball Mars
How delightful a terrain, no carbon monoxide from cars
We signed both our names topped with a double-crescent smile
Click on SETI’s link below to see the treasure we hid on this Nile
It is a burial site indeed but cast out presumptions of death if You will
My hands gift an EGG, potent symbol of Life and a gesture of goodwill
Did I not write in the poem before of rising once more from the ashes of spiritual death
Behold the Universe, my harp of harmony, echoing my every breath….

EPILOGUE & BREAKING NEWS: In my previous blog post I examined the notion that for each of us to grow into a more authentic and wholesome human being our spirits must encounter a death-before-death, the uncomfortable but critical passageway to a Life renewed in wisdom and strength. Analogous to the triumphant crescendo of the moment a phoenix rises from the ashes, our highest form is only reachable after plumbing the lowest depths of darkness, an existential grave that comes to us as a classroom in which there is buried the promise of new Life. Read how SETI have just discovered today an intriguing Egg buried within its ancient SEA of sand dunes. I do relish how the name by the ‘Image Credit’ field makes an amusing reference to my magical powers! Giggle, giggle…  :))

LINK: https://www.facebook.com/SETIInstitute/photos/a.123276420534.133038.67487330534/10153431171665535/?type=1&theater

Jen & Mazzy WOZ here :))

“… We signed both our names topped with a double-crescent smile
Click on SETI’s link below to see the treasure we hid on this Nile…”

 

Photography & Poetry: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | 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

 

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Reveries On The Wings Of Coastal Zephyr

The fierce midday sun beating calypso drums on our backs and a car desperately in need of a breather, for it was as hot inside as to be perfectly suitable for boiling an egg, Susie decided it was high time for a pit-stop before marching on with our road trip down to Ventnor on the southern tip of the island. Maybe it is in the fibre of my genetics, the non-negotiable inheritance left by my warmer clime ancestors which makes me so superbly immune to even the most oppressive of heatwaves. To everyone’s amusement and envy I simply thrive and transform into a skipping hobbit of carousing frolics when the temperature shoots to cosmic levels – with tea in hand of course! Duh!

Somewhere along the picturesque coastal path between The Needles and Brighstone Bay, we pulled over and leapt out of the car, falling straight into the arms of a most refreshingly intoxicating coastal breeze, a zephyr that must have up until now been saved in someone’s dreams and only unleashed for the very first time on our long locks. My black gypsy hair was unruly as ever so I silenced its disobedience by tying it up in a bun and, oh my, the back of my neck was deceived for a second that it had been kissed by the seductive eyes of a distant lover.

Three girls stood facing the Atlantic Ocean and a country road emblazoned with glorious Technicolor dreams cast in the guise of wildflowers and green grass, this was a place time forgot on purpose so that people like us would remember it at a later date, penned within a personal sphere of words or perhaps shared with friends over delicious tea and cake. I am abundantly blessed by Destiny to have it lead me down such palatial routes of natural beauty whose perfume I can still envision in colours thanks to my synesthetic palette of senses.

Agnes and Susie are casually poised to the left of the frame but, dear reader, you cannot pull back your pondering as to why my eyes linger to the right? For whom does my red-red heart faithfully wait for? For whose footfall does the dusty footpath anticipate? I had once revealed to you that I do not appear in photographs in the orthodox manner. If your heart is true you will naturally realise that to see me you must decipher my cheeky presence in other ways, and if you do so successfully, by golly, you shall see me! A glowing mascot of sun and sunflowers, Yellow is the colour of my Home and, as is obvious as crystal, both my good friends are in possession of it! I did not tell them to bring Yellow with them but I am confident to conjecture that Destiny had a hand to play in this. Does it not seem to you that they have become as like two loyal representatives of my Yellow homestead, on guard duty at the end of the footpath, ready to welcome the weary traveller who so clearly wears my red-red heart…?

I dedicate this photo story to someone I have yet to meet, for although I appear before him hidden, he is masterful in his Vision and sees me more clearly than I could ever possibly see myself… :))

For me, From You:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHtJDfgRJKo 

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Reveries On The Wings Of Coastal Zephyr

“… Does it not seem to you that they have become as like two loyal representatives of my Yellow homestead, on guard duty at the end of the footpath, ready to welcome the weary traveller who so clearly wears my red-red heart… “

 

Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories |Brighstone Bay | Isle Of Wight 2015

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

I am the daughter of an island nation. The British isles may not have conjured into existence my ancestral line but she is my Mother nevertheless and I have become of the belief that it is her jagged hemline of rocky coasts reaching in every direction, ragingly glossed over by the force of the ocean’s voice in the form of tidal waves, that is the explanation behind why my heart is forever a magnet towards the kingdoms of the sea. Like a helpless silver fish that squirms and wriggles in the fisherman’s net in the futile attempt to free itself, I, too, cannot be landlocked for too long a time and must seek out the tasty alertness of salty air, the noisy shrills of wayward gulls, the avarice of wet sands and the mysterious plaits of algae before my soul succumbs to stagnation.  It is as though my spirit only agreed to occupy human form on the condition that in life it may seek out its borderless essence in the infinite watery mirrors of the seas.

The present photo-diary is but an abridged version of a recent expedition to an island off the coast of southern England. Famed for its boat building history, its fair pull of poets and writers, and the once location of Queen Victoria’s summer palace, the Isle of Wight is a diamond-shaped island that floats quite happily on Channel waters. The geographical signatures one is struck by immediately upon coming here are the sight of windswept majestic cliffs, some made of coarse stones whereas others are sandy and soft. They rise as far as the eye can see and, if you are observant enough, you might even be lucky enough to spot the fossilised remains of dinosaur bones, the island is an indisputable haven for budding palaeontologists!

The most famous landmark on the Isle of Wight and the first Susie, Agnes and myself were determined to venture towards is called ‘The Needles’. Situated on the western coast, these comprise of three pillars of chalk that defiantly rise out of the sea, not at all far from Alum Bay. There is an adorable Lighthouse on the outer end of the formation and I would have dearly loved to climb it and look out from its top window, pretending to guide the lost out at sea back to the comforting embrace of the shore. For those with an appetite for history, you may be intrigued to know that there is a fourth ‘needle’ called ‘Lot’s Wife’ but it collapsed in a ferocious storm in 1764. Ironically, it is this submerged rock that shares the strongest resemblance to a needle rather than the three that are visible to the eye. Lot, himself, is a biblical figure, cited in both Christianity and Islam, venerated as a prophet and messenger of God.

As I silently stood on the edge of the grassy hill overlooking The Needles I felt as though I had come one step closer to solving the mystery of why my heart was so persistently drawn to the abstruse beauty of the sea. Is there a needle out there, below the hidden blue depths that once belonged to me, whose powers are pen-like and curative? And then it came to me, in slow hushes, in sweet trickles, the memory that indeed such a magical needle was mine and that no matter where I found myself in the world I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited…  :))

Diaries Of An Island Girl: Your Seamstress Of The Seas

“… I, the Seamstress of the people, could always entrust Mother Nature to hear my prayers and awaken life into my needle, letting it twirl and stitch and send off gifts to those for whom a smile is a treasure long-awaited… “

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

Tagore’s Brighton: A Message From Brighton Pier To You

As I looked out onto Brighton Pier, stood on the very pebbled beach that Tagore might have once trodden, listened into the hymn of the sea, and the rolling of the lathering waves onto the skin of the shore, I felt a renewed Faith that the path I had chosen in life was indeed mine to take. In my middle years of this life I remain to stand in unshaken defiance of the customs, conventions and expectations of the world in which I was born into. To this day I have not held the hand of any man nor submitted my affections to suitors seeking it, for my loyalty lies with a vision I experienced as a little girl in which I saw, distinct yet vague, of myself and my Love. It was a beautiful encounter that occurred in the most mundane of places imaginable, in the middle of an ordinary-looking doorway… :))

If I am united with my Love in the life that remains then I should like to bring him to this spot, in Brighton, where over a century ago another intoxicant of the pen and gardener of the heart cultivated secret dreams that sought roots between the pages of books but, whose words touched destinations of more extensive reach, soothing the psychology of a nation scarred by senseless polarisation.

The breeze revolting with the net of my dark locks, I contemplated that if he were here, I would turn to face my Love and whisper in his ear, “There was only flat sea, still and blue, where you look out to now. A simple horizon and the odd wader’s legs tip-toeing, stirring rings on the water before disappearing again into the skies. When I heard that you were coming to me, the membrane between the real world and the dream world fell into agony and split. A great white palace rose from the sea with unrestrained ecstasy. I recognised it immediately. Look over there, that is where I have kept safe all my poems of you…”

Tagore’s Brighton: A Message From Brighton Pier To You

“… If I am united with my Love in the life that remains then I should like to bring him to this spot, in Brighton, where over a century ago another intoxicant of the pen and gardener of the heart cultivated secret dreams…”

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Brighton Pier & Brighton Pavillion | Brighton | East Sussex | UK 2015

The Shade Of My Locks

On bare ancient rocks, waves lashing from the sea, I closed my eyes and whispered your name
The shade of my locks healed your sores from afar and now your body a candle, anew in frame and flame…

The Shade Of My Locks

“… The shade of my locks healed your sores from afar and now your body a candle, anew in frame and flame… “

Photography & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | St Peter’s Port | Guernsey | Channel Islands 2014

Tagore’s Brighton: A Day Out With My Baby Sister

Once in colonial past and Union Jack above India soared
Ambitions ground by father, Tagore on steamer moored
To a coastal town in England, named as if the sun lived in this place
Moist paddy fields no more, instead ivory seagulls filled this space
On shoals of pebbles he sat and knew a barrister he was not
Rather to let pen dance on paper, poetry to blot
Indian palace, The Royal Pavilion, the prince’s summer residence glowed
Burst his heart, memories of home, tears of salty rivers flowed
But look what did become of him, a poet to reach summit of the stars
And so my baby sister and I decided this pilgrimage would be ours
She the flashy illustrator, I the teller of exotic stories
Stood in the places he stood, sipping hazaar cups of teas…

Tagore’s Brighton: A Day Out With My Baby Sister

“… Indian palace, The Royal Pavilion, the prince’s summer residence glowed
Burst his heart, memories of home, tears of salty rivers flowed
But look what did become of him, a poet to reach summit of the stars
And so my baby sister and I decided this pilgrimage would be ours…”

Photography & Poem: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Brighton Pier & Brighton Pavillion | Brighton | East Sussex | UK 2015