.بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

And, how do I bring myself to write a poem,

Whose poetry finds itself littered, wild, though sometimes, somewhat quiet, and

‘Contained’,

and ‘neat-seeming’:

with stars?

Sometimes, it feels quite like bewilderment. Or, like blurry-eyed

and obscure

wilderness. Kitted out with blood,

Beating, and filled with life, and turn it into ink,

to which the waters in our seas could not quite compare. Swimming through murkier waters,

And then through clearer ones, where:

Convert, shift, fear into something more like wonder. I wonder, after things like. The cold, tenacious fingers of dark forests’ aching

Depressions. The grip, and, it’s cold. Things oft feel emptier at times. Vacant, and vast. Unaware, and searching. But things, also, do heal

in good time. You’ll try to stay to see it, won’t you? Witness: this unfolding, gentle, and wild,

wilderness.

You know, you might just find that you love those stars

Just as much as I do. And maybe the facts of the incandescent cores of this, our profound and humble humanity,

Transcends all those superficial borders (call them ‘constellations’, humanly). Notions

Of ‘ethnicity’. And whatever else, and ‘class’ and ‘creed’. Maybe I ought to smile upon you

Like I like to smile upon my own brother. Always, as much as I can, and no matter what.

I know that I do not, will not,

Lose, in trying, recalibrating myself, to give. Rely on compasses, for some sense of direction, Qiblah. When the going gets tough, and then easy again. A beating universe, whose parts are known to communicate via waves.

These: oceanic mysteries, supernovae, that circular sun, and all these

Qur’anic narratives: our friend, and our beating scriptural heart.

They all point to the Same, at the end of our days, don’t they? To the One who created.

And so, I try to surrender. Mysterious forests, skies, I try to embrace: for what it all really is. And there are many things

I cannot claim to know, right now. I’m somewhat powerless, and somewhat able. Yet:

I know that, even at the finest point of midnight: my sky, which is ours, is still littered with those high-up and overhead stars.

Sometimes, I know: I just have to wait a while. Sometimes, things unravel, spinning around, trickling through time:

Blood: I am alive. And, these celestial spirals.

Are a little loud, at times, in making themselves known. Quaking, aching, to be known. Loved, and recalled. And not left alone. And sometimes, leaves

fall, branches snap!

And sturdy-seeming

Stems are known to rot, rot, away, and decay. It’s all a part of life. I guess I’ve been searching, all along, and find that I:

Still am.

Through telescopes of sorts. And searching, and peering, and: finding little things here and there that positively light up my mind, my world,

is all well and good and fine and all:

So long as I do not lose sight of the Point,

the First and the Last:

My Lord, who Created, who is the Lord of all of this.