So it’s a simple choice, then?

Either conform to revealed codes of piety
or be glued back together
at the end of time

only to be set alight, like some smashed-up deckchair
in the backyard…

I don’t have any other gods in mind
nor whims to whisk me away
from this ultimatum

this is a day no more confused than any other
nor am I under orders
from some Odin or grand illusion

If this is how it is and I can still be so stubborn?
There must be a reason
or a new way of meaning

Like the times I sometimes feel you
looking clean through me,
is that my sujud?

Like our walk through the woods
in the screaming wind,
was that my hajj?

I have no idea how long I can hold onto this new fast
between rebirth
and yet another death

Muhammad was my suhoor,
let my false self be my own iftaar
and between them

may I always hunger and thirst for Your light

Listen to the poem