There's this guy who, wait, how can I make you understand? Is the kinda guy you'd only ever see in Ramadan - a phony? Perhaps. Eleven monthly lapses, now a portrayal of something he ain't? Bleakly emerging from the underworld as the monthly saint - he is - turning away from the whites of eyes that roll back in judging heads, he chooses the month to worship and devote himself instead.
He'd never hear the comments as much as he'd see em, but they were always so plain to see, "part-time Muslim" is what the eyes said, fickle fault-finders couldn't let what was, be. But this year, the winds carrying change blew harder than ever before, and the one scorned and disgraced was adorned and graced, presenting sincerely at his beloved's door.
Indeed I saw the one shunned for his pointless ritual that "wasn't made to last", riding ahead of the pack, not once looking back, down a track enjoyed only by the steadfast; in their preoccupation, they'd barely noticed his station, as he excelled to a place they could not go, their brick walls for brains oblivious to his progress, a vision blurred by the ugliness of ego.
With both hands do I shake his both hands which I pray will be raised with my name in the mix, his every whisper and cry pierces heaven's eye, so glad tidings to yesterday's derelicts.
He'd never hear the comments as much as he'd see em, but they were always so plain to see, "part-time Muslim" is what the eyes said, fickle fault-finders couldn't let what was, be. But this year, the winds carrying change blew harder than ever before, and the one scorned and disgraced was adorned and graced, presenting sincerely at his beloved's door.
Indeed I saw the one shunned for his pointless ritual that "wasn't made to last", riding ahead of the pack, not once looking back, down a track enjoyed only by the steadfast; in their preoccupation, they'd barely noticed his station, as he excelled to a place they could not go, their brick walls for brains oblivious to his progress, a vision blurred by the ugliness of ego.
With both hands do I shake his both hands which I pray will be raised with my name in the mix, his every whisper and cry pierces heaven's eye, so glad tidings to yesterday's derelicts.
