“It is cold. The sun has gone down. The mullahs have gone in, and their pupils with them. The lustre has gone from the blue towers and the green corn. Their shadows have gone. The magic scent has gone. The summer has gone, and the twilight brings back the spring, cold and uncertain. I must go.
Goodbye, Gohar Shad and Baisanghor. Sleep on there under your dome, to the sound of boys’ lessons. Goodbye, Herat.”