The past month was sanctified by those searching Mohammed’s traces
in our time, still, and recurrently so.
While the moon grew and waned,
silence came over the lands
and abstinence from temptation
to recenter around the Truth.
I partook in smaller ways,
by praying along and fasting twice,
by celebrating Iftar with Iranian dates,
by learning the Arabic weather.
The will was alive, out there and in here,
but in other parts, the days were torn apart,
and families too,
by violence of those who drag the Name
along for alibi sake
and nothing, nothing more.
And now routines begin anew
perhaps in the context of a more
altered, sobered understanding
of what any or all of this ought to mean.
My urgent call in this night
portrays the need for more, above all,
with perhaps the creator or creators,
neighbors all and strangers,
and ask what service to one another
really looks and feels like,
and if it involves taking off our shoes
and washing each other’s feet.
Because after all,
the paths are all dusty,
from the desert winds and distance,
and we are all