Collecting Nights
I lift my head up from the pillow and hear the soft rain falling outside

It is that magic hour again, when it is dawn and not quite,

When the night hasn't entirely relinquished its hold on the day,

I listen to the rain murmur, insistent raindrops caressing trees,boughs, leaves, streets...

There is just so much beauty in this quiet hour that the words are summoned forth from me

Like droplets collecting in gleaming pools in hidden nooks and corners that only the rain can reach

The silence, which so far, has only been punctuated by raindrops, is suddenly pierced by the muezzin's call

Memory takes me back to all the calls to prayer I have experienced with you

Only you can lend the azaan with such a quiet eloquence

Only you can shape syllables, words and sounds into prayer.

It is another night.
Or is it the same? I cannot tell.
A wise woman once said that love slows down the turning of time.
But does it not also make the hours bleed into days bleed into weeks, months, years within a blink of the eye?

And what is time to a heart that knows love? What are the days to a life touched by the lyrical beauty of your mind?

And so I sit here by the windowsill,
Thinking perhaps, it is the same night or it is another,
It does not really matter.

This night is awash with rain.
The cold, hard pebbles have fallen thick and fast,

And the soil has responded with a song of the earth so rich and potent that its tendrils permeate the thickest of walls and the toughest of glass,

Rooftops whisper words to this song, which is as old as Time, and sleeping hearts beat to the rhythm of an ancient dance, as all hearts must.

Why else would the rain conjure warm smiles, sad smiles, wistful smiles, joyous smiles, but smiles nonetheless?

This earthsong is like your memory, its heady aroma like your presence that transcends reality, plausibility, reason and those silly little lines we like calling borders.

This night is punctuated by the whirring of the fan,
Its day has been filled with the persuasive purrs of the washing machine.
A comforting little domestic scene.

It is the small things, the everyday occurrences that really make up the threads that hold us together.

They make the fantastic seem even more fantastical, and they give us a place to return to when the magic is just too magical, and all the heart needs is a worn old pillow and the familiar crook of an arm.

This night has a sun burning in its sky,
And slowly, a line of winged fairies orbit the glowing circle of light.
Through the bokeh of wet eyelashes, I watch them greet searing heat and fall.
And rise again.
The burning is sweet, it is the fall, the separation that is agonising.
This night teaches me, warms me, and keeps me company till the sun of your smile beams upon my face.
This night is like so many others before it, and many more that are yet to arrive.
This night is a dream, and with you, comes the gift of many other dreams.
This night is a vision,
And this night, this one right here, is a wish.
This night and all nights are like promises, not yet whispered, but made.

All these nights are filled with light and dark.
They don't scare me,
I know that you are close by.
My hand reaches out across the seas of time and age,
And finds yours.