- in the name of Allah -

If only whores were Hurs, they'd be beautiful and pure, wishful thinking to brighten skies otherwise rainy and obscure. What man would love not the chance to hold in his glance, a scent to set passions ablaze, eternally free from frivolous sin or guilt, the perfect reward I might say for an end to life's maze? Why do I, one might ask, have my thoughts linger in such directions, when reality abounds and beckons, holding a person down with merciless reckon? It's been said this is our prison, our cage to wander till death answers the bell and our souls give in. How can one tied down, surrounded by incessant stress and frowns, not seek to find a cave in the clouds? Imagine being addressed by angels of incalculable wings, stretching from where one horizon ends to where another begins, all the while catching the gaze of the most beautiful women ever made. It hurts my brain to try to fathom, a time or place where such thoughts wouldn't by sin be unraveled, a perfectly delectable chocolaty cheesecake, without calories, fully edible with no possible regrets to its happening.

While I hate and fear the thought of falling down to Hell, of failing my self in front of my Lord when it matters most, I can say in earnest I'd love more to earn His pleasure and find Him as I expect to be, the perfect Host. I couldn't be less worthy, or more treacherous, than if a leper today claimed he saw Jesus at his deathbed, cured of all ailments, except what was wrong with his heart and his head. My soul betrays me more often than I care to remember, recollecting the times I'd wished to be free yet still breaths were held inside for me to breathe. Even with overt and sometimes honest intentions, wandering seems inevitable for nomads, and I can find in myself to this rule no exception.

And so, because of all of this, despite how straight the path is I wish to tread, despite overlooking the ditches, sometimes even falling head long off of (hopefully short) cliffs...that I dream the dream of kings, but without the taint of power or riches, just gifts gifted aplenty without recompense but simply endless. Rewards so enticing yet pure, incorruptible by lust, firmly entrenched by modesty and everlasting in bliss, all thoughts of imagination secure, lifted by a prayer I'd give to have for me my own Hur.