Not a reconstruction of the Falnama, but something in conversation with it. A book of omens rewritten as cards. A mirror for anyone who wants to ask something — and listen.

In the old cities of Persia, Turkey, and Hindustan, there was once a book that did not ask to be read—it asked to be opened.

The Falnama, or “Book of Omens,” was no ordinary text. Lavishly illustrated, wrapped in gold and mystery, it was consulted by sultans, mystics, and common seekers alike. One did not browse its pages. One approached it with a question, a breath held in silence, and then—with a hand guided by fate—turned to a single page. What lay revealed was not a simple answer, but a vision: the Prophet astride a lion, the sun weeping, Solomon’s throne shattering, a serpent with a thousand mouths. These were not predictions. They were mirrors. You saw in them what you feared—or what you needed.

No complete Falnama survives.

The great books of omens—once read beneath the vaulted ceilings of courts and shrines—have not come to us whole. What remain are fragments: a few surviving manuscripts, scattered pages in museums, solitary illustrations cut from their bindings. Some show Solomon commanding jinn. Others depict comets, lions, or headless saints. Their accompanying texts vary wildly—from Qur’anic verses to Sufi allegories, from dream interpretations to cosmological diagrams.

There is no single Falnama, and perhaps there never was. Each was unique: a reflection of its time, its place, and the hand that painted it. I have not attempted to reconstruct the lost book. Instead, I’ve embraced its essence—divination through vision, meaning through story—and reimagined it in a form that suits our own fragmented age: a deck of cards, each bearing a parable.

Reveal your cards

I wrote an illustrated Guide to the Cards of Falnama—139 pages of mysticism and wisdom.

Only $30

I’m working on creating a card set that you can use with the guide. Hope to get it soon!

This all started with a story.

I was looking for something mysterious—something out of 1001 Nights—to introduce my character Arash Zayed. I wanted a symbol, a spark, a tradition that felt ancient enough to open a new world. (see excerpt in next section)

That’s when I found the Falnama.

At first, I stumbled onto a modern Turkish version—a deck of cards, beautifully designed, inspired by the old Book of Omens. It led me deeper, toward the original Persian Falnama manuscripts: grand, cosmic, fragmentary. Their pages were filled with visions—Solomon commanding jinn, stars falling from painted skies, lions and saints and heavenly storms. No full book survives. Only scattered pages, like pieces of a forgotten wisdom.

The Turkish cards were elegant, but their texts felt too bare. I wanted the heart of the old Falnama—not just the form. I wanted something that whispered secrets, like those old pages must have.

But how to bring that into our time?

King Solomon was said to know three thousand proverbs. I imagined those proverbs passed down like seeds—some blooming into stories, others hiding in silence. That’s when I turned to fables. I thought of La Fontaine, and Aesop before him—how they used animals to carry truths that people weren’t always ready to hear directly.

So I kept the cards from the Turkish deck, because they felt connected to history.

And I gave each one a parable—short, symbolic, speaking in the voice of foxes, cranes, owls, goats.

The result is this deck. Not a reconstruction of the Falnama, but something in conversation with it.