The days of spring have come, the garden is in bloom
The nightingale sings on every branch, the breeze is in tune
The roses are laughing, the jasmine is fragrant
The beloved is in my arms, the world is content
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She had waited for him for a long time. He was a traveler, a wanderer, a seeker of truth. He had left her to explore the world, to learn from different masters, to find his own path. She had given him her blessing, but also her promise. She would wait for him, no matter how long it took, no matter how far he went. She loved him more than anything, and she knew he loved her too.

She spent her days in the garden, tending to the flowers, listening to the birds, feeling the breeze. She prayed for his safety, his happiness, his return. She dreamed of him at night, his face, his voice, his touch. She wrote him letters, poems, songs, and sent them with the wind. She hoped he would receive them, and remember her.

One day, in the spring, she saw him. He was walking towards her, smiling, radiant, changed. He had grown older, wiser, more handsome. He had a beard, a turban, a cloak. He carried a staff, a book, a flute. He looked like a sage, a mystic, a lover. He was all that and more.

He embraced her, kissed her, whispered in her ear. He told her he had missed her, he had thought of her, he had come back for her. He told her he had found his truth, his way, his God. He told her he had learned from many teachers, but none like her. He told her he had seen many wonders, but none like her. He told her he had loved many people, but none like her.

He took her to the garden, where the flowers were in bloom. He sang to her with the nightingale, he danced with her with the breeze. He gave her roses, jasmine, and his heart. He held her in his arms, and the world was content.