Sorry for the length… It just kept going and I could not figure out how to edit things out.




I speak of a people who inhale the scent of sacred earth by placing their faces to it

At a time when most of the world is asleep and dreaming of providence

They make their backs crooked, palms to the sky,

Their words lift off of the tongue and take flight to the divine.

They walk the land with the with every step in measured paces

The mark of prayer delicately, painted on their faces like calligraphy

The script with which they move like droplets that meet seamlessly

With a water’s surface delicately, producing a ripple, effortlessly

Stirring that which was still, the reverberations felt, impeccably

Their lips moistened with remembrance, every second their tongues unfurl

Their listening attuned to the signs of God in their world

They hear Him… in the rustling of leaves moved by a wind unseen

They feel Him… between the moment of sleep and the dream

They sense him… in the scent of rain before the squall

Between the flash of lightning and its thunderous call

They see Him… in the way the clouds provide cover for the exposed

And they know Him… in their inability to completely know Him, Cloaked

Their calloused hands speak of work and affliction

Despite no complaints escaping their mouths of their condition

The softness of forgiveness is seen in the deepness of their eyes

The creases in their cheeks speak of healing smiles and empathetic cries

The recorder on their right had run out of ink in his well

And on their left, there is but a book of torn pages, fell

To the ground like the water of ablution off their arms

And in this battle of the righteous they take up arms

Against themselves, they stab inward and slay their own egos

Extract the darkness of  their hearts, cleansing their souls

Their chests burst forth, the result of hours of reflection

Their shoulders exhausted from carrying the weight of their mistakes, corrections

Made only to their physical form, their soul from a place of perfection

In low, hushed voices they whisper their undialed connection

With their Lord and with each other, the light of their faces hint

That no matter the shape or size of their feet, they share the same footprint

Fitting perfectly in the path that they all share behind he whose name was mercy

He who started the spark that led them to their journey

He who gave them instruction in a voice echoed 1400 years to their ears

Echoed off in the vibrations that bounced off those before them , their peers

Who set sail on the same mission

Blood, sweat and tears fell, but never blurred their vision

I speak of they who stand up with the heads peaked in pride

Against injustice and oppression, never denied

The risk or the sacrifice that came with the fight, to find

Their words like bullets found their targets in the hearts and minds

Of those who never knew, or refused to

Until their tongues carved like swords through what they were used to

Held down the fists that used to abuse them

Aim arrows that slice the whirlwind of falsehood that used to confuse them.

They who run headstrong into the enemy’s chest to embrace them

Gaze into their  eyes tainted with filth and erase them,

Like stained glass they shatter houses of hate with soft tones

Make themselves humble, Crumble their own thrones

I speak of those who put their own lives up as collateral

Because living life while others suffer is incompatible

Their heartbeats burst with passion through their breasts

March on evil and demand to confront their best

And then crush them with sincere dominance and will

Destroy the heartless from within until their hearts rest and are still

I speak of they who remind each other that death is nearer than they believe

And that from the moment they were conceived

That this world was a myth and that every moment after the beauty of their birth

That despite growth upwards, they were moving closer to earth

That their graves were already dug and waiting for them to swallow

And so for every moment they breath, they fill that which is hollow

In their heart, leave no space unfilled and unoccupied

I speak of they who on the day that they lay on their beds to die

The world will shiver for them as it mourns them and yearns,

And with their last breath they will say, from Him we have come and to Him we shall return.





~ by Yousaf on May 29, 2013.

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