"Consider the human self, and how it is formed in accordance with what it is meant to be,
and how it is imbued with moral failings as well as with consciousness of God!
To a happy state shall indeed attain he who causes this [self] to grow in purity,
and truly lost is he who buries it [in darkness]."
Al-Qur'an 91:07-10


I am on Jupiter when the summer rains begin. It is dawn. Raining letters, Arabic letters. Each drop of pure Arabic script lights the sky with a stone-skim of silvery black. And so I walk on.
I walk on in the rain for hours. Yet my heart is hard and heavy.
And so I walk on.

A hundred million spears of golden alif, made of water buckled tight with the weight of Jupiter's mass, and now each of these spilt my body in two and in two and in two again and again, each time my body rendered apart like a lightening struck oak, then reclaimed by Jupiter's enormous belly-mass yarking me back into a single piece of flesh, walking still through the torrent of shredding arrows. Yet not one projectile splices my heart, for it is still too hard even for these angels' bullets.
And so I walk on.

Ba Ta  Ha
The three boatmen bring the bucketing rain in breastfulls along the rim of the blood red storm, some tumbling from the sky like laughing boys rolling down a shallow mountain beck, others stiff and stern with self-discipline like a company of soldiers side-stepping down the slopes of a dusty valley.  Yet even this torrent of love cannot raise my roped heart up to the heavens to be kissed by angels.
And so I walk on.

This raindrop is all alone and tells me it has visited Paradise. How can that be? How can anything visit the home of pure souls and then return? 'Are you the devil, cast down?' I ask.  The raindrop replies, 'The truth is - I have not truly been inside the lovely gardens, but with my Lord's permission I peeked through the dense olive groves that surround the lovely gardens. My friend! How beautiful the light was there in the lovely gardens, more enchanting than woodland thick with snow. Praise be to Allah. Ever since that glimpse, every sleeping moment has been filled with dreams of that sky. You know!  It is like a fear on me! O my friend, it is indeed a long journey from here, but I have travelled that way once, and for love of God - why not twice? What do you think?" No. Even your dreamy hope cannot lift the shadows from my grey heart sufficient to turn me onto the road to Paradise - no, not even if the road were lined with mountains of gold.
And so I walk on.

Now comes a genus of raindrop that changes the colour of the sky, filling it with white robes like pilgrims. Rain that dare do no other than fall like rain. 400 000 white torches that dare do no other than form mercurial rivulets on the blood red soil. Streams that dare do no other than join like arcs of lightening to make rivers, and seas like suns, and oceans like nebulae. Rain shining so bright that the light passes from my occipital bone through to the back of my eyeball. But not even light this bright can waken me.
And so I walk on.

From behind the wall of light brighter than the flash of a nuclear blast, I hear of voice.  A soliloquy lamenting something broken, lost, but for now the words are not clear. These words were first uttered long ago, and though I am moved by their pious passion, I strain to hear their sense or meaning. Then suddenly speech breaks through, whispering not from somewhere beyond my space, but muttering out of wounds on my chest and abdomen.

It is the words of brother and sister mustad'af,  a moment ago believing in nothing because they have been taught to rely on nothing but themselves. They are isolate, mad, poor, crippled with kindness; tender feelings have twisted their limbs into spirals, faces burned bone bright with innocence. Their words not much more than phonemic screeches, like birds with lips for beaks.

The voice of those taught to live by the myth of Godless contentment screaming in rebellion.

"Oh my Lord!" Cries out brother mustad'af.  "Let me worship You beneath this mantle, a mantle like the mantle of the Prophet (may peace be upon him), a mantle to protect me from the dark dead figures walking this earth. O Lord! Let my salah be hidden from all but You and permit not even Your angels to see me. O my Lord!"

"O my Lord!" The sister cries. "Let me worship You without the law of religion to tether me, a law grey with the ink of men. Let Your perfect guidance be not a veil to wear on the street and in polite company, but a light to guide us in the ways of Love and Truth among all of humankind. O my Lord!"

"Oh my Lord!" They cry together. "Your Mercy has overwhelmed even Your own Universe. Your Love is boundless. May we forever seek You and live beside You, crouching like miners before Your  Perfect Light. O My Lord!"

And so We walk on.

Julian Yaqub 2016