“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” W.B Yeats
Disappearing acts are hard to follow,
especially if you are standing on the absence of your own footprint.
I have ran enough road to know that it is useless to flee yourself.
The gauntlet is never ending -Never ending.
There is always the snatch of trap door awaiting your mistake
– the sin you thought was harmless and yet turned out to be haram.
I must make for Mecca.
O old city!
whose walls wrap around the tearful devoted like the odd quiet of a Middle Eastern night
where travels a shepherd in search of his lost flock of sheep.
He will find that some souls tend to wander.
God loosens his grip on the world; it is however up to you to slip through His fingers;
like an acacia tree that strips off its robes and weeps the fallen youth of its branches-
Will you catch a leaf and listen?
It sings,
“I HAD TO PACK MY THINGS AND GO”. A prodigal child that runs off to a foreign country to
squander his father’s wealth. The parable repeats itself.
