Legend

The irises in the city’s gardens bloomed only briefly. Each flower opened at dawn, spread petals ruffled like the hem of a gown, and wilted within a few days. Bayran Sulu only ever picked a single Iris.

One morning Bayran stepped into the studio of the palace painter. Unfinished paintings leaned against the walls under a film of dust: golden domes, columns, half a palace. Not one was complete.

“I’m waiting for inspiration worthy of these walls,” said the painter. “Nothing is perfect enough to be finished.”

Bayran set a bowl of water on the table and placed the iris in it.

“Paint it while it blooms.”

The painter scoffed, but he reached for his brush. For the first hour he painted grudgingly. Then he noticed that a petal, still furled that morning, had begun to unfold – and he painted faster, closer, until he no longer saw the domes outside the window. On the third day the flower withered. The painting was finished.

“Beauty doesn’t wait for perfection,” said Bayran. “It lasts as long as the attention you give it.”

Thereafter, Bayran brought her Iris to anyone who was waiting for something worthier than the day at hand.