- in the name of Allah - 


immaterial

no way to describe this hole that was once always filled, words of 'condolences' and words in general, of even less substance than previously imaginable. there is no voice for me to utter, no way to encapsulate, the meaning or measure of a man, who lived before I'd been conceived by fate. rarely liked, loved always, a fortress against the winds of life, his was a hand more likely to strike in punishment than with tenderness hold, such was the way of one who'd lost his mother early on long before he'd grown. of flaws and faults, layers of subjective insufficiency, I could go on, but all of those now matter naught, the earth of his grave is now his home. what lingers on, his legacy in my veins, blood I never asked for but given by my Rabb all the same, that I might perchance take heed of lessons once let slip through fingers into sands of time now vanished, to build on the good he had, not repeat his mistakes, to diffuse the anger, mellow suspicion, and pour blissfully cold water over hate, letting fall away the grudges his generation so easily made.

I am the me of always, one who lives, who loves, who remains, seemingly till dunya itself grinds away all our better ambitions to dust with its ever luring gaze. at times my aim seems too high, too grandiose, spectral imaginings by a ghost yet mortal of longing utterly beyond his scope: of places quite near to the Throne, of palaces for queenly Beacons and hands of peerless Hoors for mine to hold, of such company in knowledge and purity and truth, as nearly shames me to compare my love to what they do, but it is so: such are they who encompass the best of humanity, who take my ideals to their fullest, giving breadth of meaning meant by being Allah's best of creation.

I long for that place, knowing well I am less than pauper for the price it needs paid, that the sum of all my life's deeds could by one hour of those elevated be met or exceeded, that I am not even the wolf howling at the moon's reflection in a lake whose depth I cannot begin to fathom; that place so vast in its beauty and essence, a thousand lifetimes of mine would not suffice to build a bridge worthy of its entrance. so why would a lowly slave long for such a Home when he's barely worth the shelter of a cave? it is: because his soul mines in those caverns diamonds he's never seen but by their dust their brilliance he's known; because the light inside him, now condensed where once it scattered, pulls with a force towards its ilk that nothing on this earth can measure or mold or fracture; because though he knows not how he'll find death, the mercy of his Rabb shelters all his hopes, and so with Him are they all gathered.