A Ghazal & A Poem
The Stagnant Ghazal
The world around is wet and damp,
The wave of time and emotion are stagnant.
My heart that resides my cursed Muslim soul,
Lays at the foot of my own desires, all stagnant.
My breath of rotten leaves and sandalwood,
Float ever so still on waters of time that stagnant.
The earth slows to a deafening, absorbing pace,
Time slows with it, dark and infertile, stagnant.
Flesh that once moved and trembled for fire,
Is now veiled, wrapped in cold time, stagnant.
The Cry of the Fingertips
My marble-like fingers are too smooth,
Yet the work of Your grace barely touches them.
Like the king reaching for too high of fruit,
My stars have most betrayed my witty Kismet.
The fingertips cannot touch Your seal,
Embroidered on my silken curtains.
They feel nothing Your have done,
Are my thoughts a trouble to You,
How they creep along the heart,
Crushing and devouring all nourishment,
Making sounds like a tyrant.
What I am a tyrant of, Oh Master?
Is a tyrant lonely though Your will,
When the tyrant is cold, does it not want warmth,
When the tyrant wants gratefulness, does the attempt,
Go out into the dark wilderness,
Like a match against the gale.
To do to so much with care,
Only to have Kismet slip,
Through the silk of life.
My fingers are too smooth,
In a life touched by Your grace.
The world around is wet and damp,
The wave of time and emotion are stagnant.
My heart that resides my cursed Muslim soul,
Lays at the foot of my own desires, all stagnant.
My breath of rotten leaves and sandalwood,
Float ever so still on waters of time that stagnant.
The earth slows to a deafening, absorbing pace,
Time slows with it, dark and infertile, stagnant.
Flesh that once moved and trembled for fire,
Is now veiled, wrapped in cold time, stagnant.
The Cry of the Fingertips
My marble-like fingers are too smooth,
Yet the work of Your grace barely touches them.
Like the king reaching for too high of fruit,
My stars have most betrayed my witty Kismet.
The fingertips cannot touch Your seal,
Embroidered on my silken curtains.
They feel nothing Your have done,
Are my thoughts a trouble to You,
How they creep along the heart,
Crushing and devouring all nourishment,
Making sounds like a tyrant.
What I am a tyrant of, Oh Master?
Is a tyrant lonely though Your will,
When the tyrant is cold, does it not want warmth,
When the tyrant wants gratefulness, does the attempt,
Go out into the dark wilderness,
Like a match against the gale.
To do to so much with care,
Only to have Kismet slip,
Through the silk of life.
My fingers are too smooth,
In a life touched by Your grace.