Snow, A Christmas Tale

christmazzy-2016

 

Christmas morning whispered into my ear.

I wriggled and turned on my back, and though my eyes were still kissed down tight with delicious sleep, I let myself rise. Sat on my bed, I stretched and grinned, a grin made of home and comfort and Amma’s old hands. I must have been smiling like that for a long time, because soon I felt the edges of my room wanting to come apart, releasing me and everything in it into the air.

My eyes flickered open.

Something had changed.

I glanced around the room. Even in the grey dimness I saw that an immense stillness had entered the heart of objects. My copy of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, the brass figurine of Horus, the bells from Nepal, each and all, now gazed at me in perfect pause. When I picked up the bedside clock and pressed it against my ear its ticks came out muffled, as though it had lived its previous life somewhere on a deep seabed.

With a sharp turn I eyed the chink between the curtains.

And there I saw what my heart had desired all year long. I knew of that rareness that glittered between the drapes.

Overnight, the world had grown a skin forged of starlight.

Leaping up from my bed I rushed to the curtains and opened them wide.

Snow! It was snow!

As far as the eye can see.

It was so thick and fresh and crisp, that I was certain that the whole world was covered in it.

I must have jumped a few times in excitement, then darted out of my bedroom door, and ran down the stairs, missing three steps at a time, before dunking my feet into my Wellington boots and pulling on my duffel coat.

‘Moni, where do you think you are going?’ Amma had one hand on her chubby hip whilst in the other she held an open box of cornflakes.

‘Amma, please –‘

‘You can’t go like that!’ She waddled over to the wooden chair and from under her shawl she grabbed her red woolly scarf and flung it at me. ‘We don’t want you catching a cold now.’

I caught the scarf and swiftly wrapped it round my neck. ‘Thank you, Amma!’ I beamed a smile at her.

She shook her head, chuckled and swung back to prepare breakfast.

Sliding the latch off, which seemed to take forever, I finally pulled the door open.

The air was clarity itself, laced in ice and quiet, as if history had not found it yet. Chimney tops and the tips of the highest branch, and even the sky itself, all sparkled pristine white.

I drew a long breath in and stepped foot onto the garden path, the sharp crunch under my boot the loudest sound for miles. I took another step and this time I dug my boots down further. I was curious to know if my other world still existed, whether it remained in slumber underneath the white.

As I was about to walk on I discovered that I was not alone. A robin redbreast dipped and dived overhead. It finally perched its tubby little body on the snow-cloaked needle of the spruce tree at the bottom of the garden. He looked in my direction and started to chirp, and with each note a few flakes, like chippings of stars, scattered down below.

I giggled and hopped over to the tree, my woolly red scarf bouncing along, and only once did I glance over my shoulder, just so to admire my trail of deep-set footprints.

The robin sang its sweet song.

And the scarf and I twirled underneath him.

Two red voices in a new world.

 

Words & Image by Masufa (‘Mazzy’) Khatun | Winchester | UK 2016

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 3: On The Matter Of Taking Cover!

I shall now present to You a PIECE of mesmeric news that will undoubtedly cause a SHOCKWAVE of excitement and ignite the sparkplugs of the imagination to swell beyond their manufacturing default capacity! On late Monday night – Tuesday for us Brits – MOMO TOMB – sorry – MOMO TOMBOY – sorry – MOMOTOMBO in Nicaragua, near the town of LEON! (Giggle, giggle!) decided to RUMBLE and spill out its LAVA’s heart all over its mountainous slopes for the first time in 110 YEARS! No casualties to report thank goodness, the theatrical display of a most surprising act by a SLEEPING volcano reads out to my senses like a scene from a cathartic Shakespearean moment where the actress breaks down the WALLS of self-conscious inhibitions that had her barricaded for a tad too long just so that she may have the precious chance to express her feelings to Mr… ♥♥♥  

Hours before this HISTORIC eruption of MOMO TOMB – sorry – MOMO TOMBOY – sorry MOMOTOMBO – during my trek with my ever trusty adventurer mate, Alex, I gave her the strict instructions that she ought to take cover behind an old tree. Humorously confused by my strange request, she frowned her eyebrows like caterpillars skimming across her forehead and with suspicious tone of voice asked me whatever was I up to now! Casually I told her, “Just do as I say, the PIECES of the jigsaw will fall in their RIGHTFUL places at the RIGHT TIME”. All too accustomed to my cryptic ruminations, she could not be bothered to laboriously issue any further argumentation and simply obeyed, but in doing so she actually began to take pride in her hitherto unrecognised acting abilities, coming face-to-face with the play of the imagination! What You see below is the last photograph we took! Oh I do love to AMAZE people by reacquainting them to their own untapped Gifts that lie deep and dormant in those uncharted blue oceans of their being!

Whilst I was fast asleep in bed in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, my South American namesake volcano MOMO TOMB – sorry – MOMO TOMBOY – sorry MOMOTOMBO – awoke to make a HISTORIC COMEBACK! [I told You that You should have paid a little more attention in those History classes back at school!]

The burning question now remains is when will that TIME arrive when I can look forward to receive that snuggly and as-warm-as-tomato-soup hug from my smiling, sleeping partner? Wink, wink…  ♥♥♥ 

My LAVA Story eludes the Logic of Time,
Always Your Momotomb-o-y, Mazzy xxx

 

LINK TO NEWS 1: http://www.ibtimes.co.uk/momotombo-stunning-video-shows-nicaragua-volcano-erupt-ash-lava-first-time-110-years-1531663

LINK TO NEWS 2: http://www.wired.com/2015/12/nicaraguas-momotombo-volcano-erupted-for-the-first-time-in-100-years/

LINK TO NEWS 3: https://www.rt.com/news/324615-nicaragua-momotombo-volcano-erupts/

LINK TO PREVIOUS WP ARTICLE CONTAINING MY VOLCANO CONSTRUCTION EXERCISE: https://mazzykhatunphotostories.wordpress.com/2015/11/16/an-interview-with-a-washing-line-by-aunty-mazzy-rey/

Christmas Month Puzzle Box 3: On The Matter Of Taking Cover!

“Hours before this HISTORIC eruption of MOMO TOMB – sorry – MOMO TOMBOY – sorry MOMOTOMBO – during my trek with my ever trusty adventurer mate, Alex, I gave her strict instructions that she ought to take cover behind an old tree…”

 

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

 

Belle UK: Chilling Out With A Winter Wonderland Pixie! EPISODE III

When I was but a tiny sprout and my world did not transgress beyond anymore than that sacred periphery of my Amma’s (Mum) legs I would impatiently yearn for the day to turn into evening so that she would sit down and tell me a tale or two, those immaterial and priceless oral gifts that had been passed down onto her by her own grandma when she was growing up in the village back in the distant hills of Bangladesh. My other siblings were not as absorbed by Amma’s hypnotically genius aptitude for storytelling as I was, to hear her every word and capture each nuance and inflection of her face as the tale rolled out from the rich repository of her memory and into my earnest-eyed canvas of the imagination was the epitome of joy, and each evening invited me to discover the same treasure without it ever failing to enthral the beats of my ticking heart with each retelling.

One of the recurrent themes of these olden tales was of Nature and of particular the role of TREES. Of many shapes, sizes and colours, they figured as the abode of both students and sages, yet in some narratives their leafy canopies would be occupied and infested by shabby and disfigured dark spirits, witches for example. My Amma had me hooked so tight with these visualisations that I would pack up and enthusiastically go off on mini adventures to the park, that lay across from my childhood home, to investigate the foundations of these stories, admiring and probing the architectural poetry of trees and flowers much more closely than the other children and pondering to myself whether under whatever tree that I stood in could it have once witnessed a wandering sage taking respite under its sheltering firmament of verdant leaves.

Winter in the 80’s were extremely cold and the thick snow would often reach as far as the height of the windowsill, and I would perch against it, looking out at the gnarled and bare branches but it never saddened me to see them so, for I always thought it quite pleasant that the absence of fleshy leaves meant that whenever a cute fat red-breasted robin chose to settle on a branch I would enjoy the most beautiful unobstructed view. And, were it the case that not a robin but the more macabrely dressed raven or crow were the fleeting visitor then that too was a blessing of a visual treat because it simply took my breath away in awe to see such phenomenal contrast of jet blackness against the pristine backdrop of the whitest snow. Thanks to my Amma’s tales I came to interpret the raven and crow as the disguised embodiment of the good witch, a feathered crone of secret knowledge.

Storytelling, once it arrives and swims into Your bloodstream the world is never again the same. Everything becomes enchanted with limitless possibilities and though I am trained in the Sciences, it has done little to hamper my perception and admiration of the existence of magical stories hidden in the barky and leafy bodies of trees. In fact, I would state that I have successfully married the empirical universe to that of the imaginative one to create a dimension of Vision that can never be truly known for what it is and thus an immortal curiosity flickers whenever I come across the tree. I do believe they are cognisant of my deep veneration for their kind so much so that when I sit under one in my beloved garden I am compelled to feel as if I have arrived at the place that shall always be the destination beyond all other destinations.

A remarkable exemplar of connection absent of language, I pray that You will take time to pause a while in Your hectic day and, instead of dismissing my words altogether, will learn to look at these silent but resonant companions of our world with an open heart, only then shall it be possible to listen in to their whisperings of a wisdom as ancient as the star matter from which You were created from… ♥♥♥

To add a touch of spark to my words, click on the Link to sample the spectacular story of an old-as-the-hills maiden tree who lovingly weaves a carpet of brightest gold every autumn and yet it is a carpet that does not fly, on the contrary, such is the spell of her creation that she draws the people to her, and they do arrive in their flocks, on a magic carpet made of their insatiable imagination – just like the one I was taught to fly on thanks to my Amma’s delicious tales woven in threads of trees… ♥♥♥

LINK: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/peoplesdaily/article-3330402/Magical-autumn-foliage-Millennia-old-Ginkgo-tree-tourist-hit-leaves-form-perfect-golden-carpet-Chinese-temple.html

To Trees: Grounded, rooted and still, but oh how they walked and walked and walked for me!
Your Woodland Storyteller, Mazzy xxx

Belle UK: Chilling Out With A Winter Wonderland Pixie! EPISODE III

“… the spectacular story of an old-as-the-hills maiden tree who lovingly weaves a carpet of brightest gold every autumn and yet it is a carpet that does not fly, on the contrary, such is the spell of her creation that she draws the people to her…”

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

The Fabric Of Pace-I’m Continuum

Tongues distilled from the wombs of hot honeycomb
Chilled by unseen cool spring streams
Of evening’s darkening touch of velvet veil
They lay in huddled heaps like prized thoughts of a diarist
A boudoir of spontaneous natural intimacy that could be crushed with satisfaction
To cook compost for next year’s life
Yet in the craving grid of that fisherman’s net
Bulged by mass of leaf
I saw how telescopes were but creaking distractions… 

"... They lay in huddled heaps like thoughts of a diarist A boudoir of spontaneous natural intimacy that could be crushed with satisfaction..."

“… They lay in huddled heaps like thoughts of a diarist
A boudoir of spontaneous natural intimacy that could be crushed with satisfaction…”

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

 

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

The Song Of The Berries By My Home

A Very Merry Berry Fabric Of Pace-I’m Continuum: An Afterword!

I am indulging in a brief pit-stop home and thus thought it timely that I could make a decisive contribution in the cure to reverse that horrid influenza of boredom, listlessness and enervation of hope that appears to have clasped onto Your normal cheery self. But before I commence any further on this note I am compelled to speak of the terrible news of the tragic plane crash that occurred in the Sinai desert and that was burnt into cinders, innocence tossed into deathly fires. Word reached of it to my ears yesterday and I prayed to my Creator last night for the souls of the departed and for the families who must now live with the irreplaceable loss of their most cherished ones.

In the heart of the Middle Lands, Mount Sinai, as according to biblical accounts, had once violently come down upon it thunderous lightning, the plummet of terrifying fires and the thickest and blackest and darkest of smoke and mist. Yet is it not so that the intensity of power evoked and embedded in these words of mine pale in mindless insignificance to the loss of lives that we hear of today?

It is said that Moses had once upon a time returned from that desert mountain, holding in his arms with renewed determination the tablets – medicine for the Spirit – on which carved were WORDS destined to help the people to transform into better and more wholesome versions of themselves. To those of the modern sensibility, consider its idealised effect tantamount to a WINDOWS UPDATE, A WHOLE NEW WORLD!

When my WORDS are imitated or copied out of vanity or to satisfy egocentric purposes then you risk deviating from your true Destiny. It is then that your ‘blue monkeys’ become the proponents of flammable rage, your ‘blue mountains’ become as graves, your ‘Light’ the tongue of explosions, in effect you toss your own precious self-integrity into the fire. To those who know who they are, I pray you shall forge your own path.

Today, I, Your humble seamstress and Enantiodromia of the Pen, wish to dispel this air of shadows and mist clinging like the creepy and clinging cobwebs of Halloween and to this end I wished with all my Soul for Destiny to display a little show of Good Magic, something that would make You smile tremendously because it re-affirmed the WORDS of a New Hope that this 5ft 1 Red Leader of Yours has always maintained. WATCH this viral but curative video from the WRAP website of how, on a day marred by tragedy and the macabre darkness of Halloween, I sent a whiff of the PERFUME OF THE DESERT, a RED FABRIC OF PACE-I’M CONTINUUM, that goes a little faster than a SNAIL I do care to admit, scooting through the streets of a noisy city of a NAMELESS SEDUCTIVE POPULACE where I do believe a certain Magic Box is forever waiting for me… :)) :)) :))

Oh my, You are on Your knobbly knees, pleading to me as to how I accomplished such an audacious feat? As per the original poem, the blaze of the secret would require You to make an once-in-a-lifetime adventure to my Home… ♥

Please do look after one another. I shall return soon with a sackful of new stories blessed with the warmest spices of the hearth and the deepest laughter moonlit from the chambers of the good heart.

Eternally Yours,
Mazzy xxx

LINK TO A-MAZ-ING VIDEO: http://www.thewrap.com/aladdin-magic-carpet-ride-nyc-stunt-jesse-wellens-casey-neistat/

Black-green forest mesh of spikes, dark matter of holly
It peeked through thick bars, a desire to show my Vision
That it was not a creature of solemn, crepuscular design

Red.
Red defiant!
Bright, ten thousand waxed orbs of dominance
Heartbeat threads of a Persian carpet, rare and enchanted
Infinity surely tossed, coiled and exhausted within these nameless seductive populace
And I thought hard about the decency of taste that must hide
Inside that explosion of winter’s foetal expression

Someday I shall bring my Love here, before this alter of red balloons
To show him the blaze of the secret, how Real Poetry works… :))

“Someday I shall bring my Love here, before this alter of red balloons
To show him the blaze of the secret, how Real Poetry works…”

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

Tune Into Joy – An Ode To Maya Angelou!

I know why the Free Bird sings
With a joyous thrill
Of a True Love unmet
But longed for still
And Alex’s T-Shirt caught his tune
He wishes to meet me, with tea and spoon
‘V’-shaped wings flap out on both sides
An ‘X’ in the middle to show Winchester hides
On this distant hill
By the windowsill
For I am the Free Bird, I joyfully sing
Even in the depths of night, my Pen lingering

To my Eternal Love… ♥ ♥ ♥ 

"... And Alex’s T-Shirt caught his tune He wishes to meet me, with tea and spoon ‘V’-shaped wings flap out on both sides An ‘X’ in the middle to show Winchester hides..."

“… And Alex’s T-Shirt caught his tune
He wishes to meet me, with tea and spoon
‘V’-shaped wings flap out on both sides
An ‘X’ in the middle to show Winchester hides…”

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