To the one who’s heart is in my chest…
With a broken pen I write, in a month of Mercy and Victory half fled, I sit– the nights, I strive to stand – but weakened and slacked has become my state. What sweet scents I sift through a cool breeze, brought from a home long unseen. What perfumed garments speak of days when attar flowed and fasts fled in the company of dear ones, near in blood and close of heart.
So in the land of each as he pleases, I sit– in a strange world where one day what is given is taken and what is forbidden is free… What a topsy-turvy place, where to write is wrong, and words are buried beneath crimson strands– sticky and sickly.
To our Lord I speak, in gratitude for All He has Blessed us with. And to our Lord I complain– as He is swift to call to account. And let it be known with certitude that every deed is recorded, every word written, and the hearts, like these pilfered pages, are lain bare; the secrets unknown here are there clear– so know that for each action shall you find your reward, and Allah الله is not in the least way unjust.
Every eye shall be dotted and every “t” shall be crossed. By the One Who Sent the Quran in this month, we shall soon meet again, Yaa Samad, Ameen.
(The Itcher in the Dark)