The Stoic

There was a time, when the colors were vibrant, crimson, blue, green and purple, beautiful symmetrical patterns, of incredible complexity. Much concern was taken, with the weaving, precision and pride, but no fear of failure, not with those masters. The price I fetched, fed a family for a year.

A symbol I was of opulence, cultured taste and subtlety.

People even the grandees and magistrates took their shoes off before daring to step.

I moved a lot since that.

Excuse my accent. It's been some time, since anyone asked.

I got cigarette ash, blood. I've seen disaster.

Boots , fresh from conquest, harried upon, with saluting and barking, as explosions close by caused stucco to rain over me.

Rolled up, hurriedly, a trophy changing hand. Snow, soot, and mud. More urine and blood.

I was folded, breaking apart many threads. That later could not be hidden .

Heathens and sodomites, philistines and novo rich, all possessed and mistreated, leaving their marks of disregard and outright malice.

I was turned to a fixture of a cheap apartment, changing impoverished hands month by month.

I was not repaired retouched, nor even vacuumed.

Until the last fire, that I escaped not at all. Left with three corners and a big hole, I was rolled up for the last time, folded, then thrown.

The street cats enjoy the shelter I offer from the rain.

But such is the way of all things...and being stoic is what being a Persian carpet is all about.