The Snake

On a warm afternoon, in the shade of a palm,Speckled with the sun’s golden light,The companions stood behind their Imam,The Prophet of God, dressed in white. The journey was ending and home was near,Near enough to long for its joys;As the second salaam sealed the prayer,The Prophet smiled, and looked for the boys. How strong was their stand when they had been toldBy their father and mother to forgo the ride;The command only tightened their hold,Determined to remain by their grandfather’s side. Thus were the two little darlings countedAmong this group leaving their ground,The horses were saddled, the camels mounted;But not one trace of the boys was found. Now let us visit our two little friendsWho wandered away, away from campInto the desert where the sun descendsOver the sands like a crimson lamp. Down a dune they rolled and leaptAnd wrestled playfully each other,While nearby a someone crept,Unknown to Hassan and his brother. The snake, she started from her restAnd spanned her length towards the boysTo vehemently stage protestWith all the strength a snake employs. The children’s eyes went wide with fearThey clutched each other, set to bound,But stopped to see the snake so near,And that was when they looked around. They sobbed aloud, their tears flowingAnd darkening the twilit day,The snake inched forward, not knowingWhat sense to make of this display. Back with the Prophet and his company:They searched everywhere, yet could not findA clue as to where the children might be,Despite their frantic efforts combined. The Prophet looked […]

On a Ramadan Morning Getting Ready For Work

The last drop of water slithers down my throatAnd leaves me desiring no more.Dawn is here.I have a busy day at work,So I shower down, and dress up. As I look into the mirror to comb my hair,My eyes serve me back a look,A look that warns me to be wary,A look that has me looking back, back at it. Everything before my eyes Gets to it at the speed of light,And once I see it, its burned in my head Like so many a forbidden delight.But my eyes don’t want to be fed.Not today, not quite. As I look away from my reflection,I can’t help but give a moment’s thought to the blind,Thinking who was the more blessedIn the light of the thoughts I left behind. Good men come to mindAnd the answer is right there:It is he who sees, and yet is blindTo the questionable affair. I smile at the terribly winding path I tookTo arrive at this obvious conclusion.But I’m glad I combed my hair today.