The depths of its old forest reverberated to the echoing thunder, and many a stately tree stood scorched and blackening, to whose withered boughs spring would now return in vain.

Blind, his body swaying like a blade of grass, he sang a poetic ghazel, every line a stab to my heart.

Mexmut Sulayman, b. 1968

His latest film was savaged by most reviewers.