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
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