"Scheherazade, tonight you promise to tell the story, the tale of the story teller", spoke the king. "I must hear this story, but this will be the last one, tell me, is it better then Ali Baba and the forty thieves?" "That I cannot say", she replied, "the stories worth is up to you". "Then get on with the story" the king irate king replied, "you are testing my patience, I want to here the story!" "well", started Scheherazade, "the story begins on an evening much like this".
Rain fell that night, and still many years later Maddah could still hear it pounding against the palace walls, leaving only his thoughts with him, locked away in a room, forbidden to write. Stories were entangled in his every thought, dreams consumed his mind, he was in fact a dreamer; a dreamer with enchanted tales to spin with golden words.
Français : Illustration d'Alibaba et les quarante...
Talal Maddah.
English: Picture of Ali Baba(metaphor) He yearned to let his thoughts spill out onto an empty page, he longed to flee the palace and let his feet fly across the desert, to be free and write, to tell stories. He could conjure intricate nightmares in minutes, and the sweetest dream in seconds. A master story teller, forbidden to write, he was Maddah the poet.
"A Poet!, then why was he locked away, if he was a harmless story teller!" Asked the king. "Shhhh...im just beginning", replied Scheherazade, "Maddah, was no ordinary poet". "And how could a poet be anything but ordinary", questioned the king. "He was no ordinary poet", cooed Scheherazade, "Maddah possessed a gift".
Years ago, Maddah would write stories everyday, with each day his stories would grow more intricate then a spiders web, and each tale, much like a snake charmer, could mesmerize people for hours on end.