Prayer
You're my place of worship and my prayer.
You're in the gaze that lowers in deference and the eyes that look heavenwards for absolution.
You're in the cupped palms that ask for deliverance and in the ablutions that strive for purity.
You're in the morning prayer that soars from minaret to minaret, floating over the houses of believers and unbelievers alike.
You're in the quiet of the cold marble compound, the hushed murmurs of the fountain that cleanses.
You're in the deity housed within the hearts of mosques and men alike.
You're in the forehead that touches the ground in reverence, you're in the knees that bend in adoration.
You're in the salvation offered by the recited verse and the unspoken promise of faith.
You're the love in the proclamation of faith, offered five times a day.
You're the willingness in belief, freely given, graciously taken.
You're in the ceaseless rotation of beads, in the fervour of the chant slipping through fevered lips.
You're my hüzün, my junoon and my sufiana. You're my qira'at, my ravaani and my sajda.
You are in my God. And I am in yours.