rpiece—this　one　could’ve　belonged　in　any　collection　of　ghazals；

which　spoke　of　love；　friendship；　spring　and　happiness。　We　looked　at　the　trees

of springtime blooming in an array of color； the cypresses in a garden

reminiscent　of　Heaven　and　the　elation　of　the　beloveds　reclining　in　that　garden

as　they　drank　wine　and　recited　poetry；　it　was　as　if　we　in　the　moldy；　dusty　and

icy　Treasury　could　also　smell　those　spring　blossoms　and　the　delicately　scented

skin of the joyous revelers。 “Notice how the same artist who rendered the

forearms　of　the　lovers；　their　beautiful　naked　feet；　the　elegance　of　their　stances

and　the　lazy　delight　of　the　birds　fluttering　about　them　with　such　sincerity；　also

made　the　crude　shape　of　the　cypress　in　the　background！”　I　said；　“This　is　the

work　of　Lütfi　of　Bukhara　whose　ill…temper　and　belligerence　caused　him　to　leave

each of his illustrations half finished； he fought with every shah and khan

claiming　that　they　understood　nothing　of　painting；　and　he　never　remained　in

one　city　for　long。　This　great　master　went　from　one　shah’s　palace　to　another；

from　city　to　city；　quarreling　all　the　way；　never　able　to　find　a　ruler　whose　book

was deserving of his talents； until he ended up in the workshop of an

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inconsequential chieftain who ruled over nothing but bare mountaintops。

Claiming　that　”th