A Poem Rumi Forgot to Complete

Echoes of Torment  "Can I help you, darling?"  "How long it has been?" he muttered. She remained silent. "Now, you won't even answer me?"  "I didn't get your question." "Wasn't that simple enough? I asked how long it’s been?"  "You’ve known me for ten years, darling." "Did I ask that?” he screamed at her. “Don’t act all innocent!-- just tell me!!" "It has been three years." Her voice was as calm as pouring yoghurt.  "Go away."  So she went away. She wasn’t really necessary. He just enjoyed torturing her.  Who even was she? He didn’t remember, truth be told– or he just didn’t care to remember. What difference did it make, and who? But he recalled what it had been like. Chopping off her fingers.  Three years ago– just sitting there, minding her own business. He’d just pulled out a sharp knife, asked for her hands, and cut her fingers one by one– like that. Like he’d been prepping vegetab...