Pentecost‪.‬

It is the sixth anniversary of the largest funeral in the world. The day when ten million vessels of sadness soothed the parched streets with their tears. Beating their fists to their own heads, stamping out the pain through their feet. Because it is too much for the body to bear, the pain of loss. Blood drains from the heart and drips through a cage of ribs, the stomach flames and chars. The mourner wails out of necessity. Wails for the man whose words formed the life of a nation, whose teachings pierced time and resurrected faith, virtue, and pride. The man whose eyes gored impiety, whose peremptory gaze set the Americans running like dogs. Khomeini's face was seen on the moon that lit the sky on the night of his death. Such a man they lost six years ago. It is said. THE television in the main room of our inn carries images of weeping masses, men and women groping the air for strength to bear this grief. They paw at ghosts.