Spiritual

Four Minarets?

For they’ve lost their guardianship,

Swords of star-like crescents

To the comforting motherly hands,

and pampered palace palm.

A soldier stood at the South gate,

Wailing to a rooted wind,

A casual sway,

Berthing in turquoise Sea,

Sing-song a melody of Ramadan,

Herd Jannatul Naeem into

A marauding pellet of Masjid.

In the Western Ward

A giant heating ray of the hurty sun

Born a healthier hearthstone

In a gerrymandering heart;

An enigma,

Lubricating an engine of faith

into a brighter fate.

In the Northern Neighborhood,

A bull voice bulldozing

Throughout a path of patience,

Felling trees of Faith along its way,

Smearing it walls with sainthood,

Florals in florescent plaited walls

In a harmattan party.

Now, all roads lead to Eastlinton,

A prayer party,

Burning in believer’s larynx

Waxing their toils

contained in undiluted pinnacles of desires.

Recoiling soulless sins to their origins,

Whiles, I freed greed from bondage

I know a man in the gardens of Eden

Who cried;

Uh ho, he didn’t cry, he sobbed.

Yet it’s all the same,

A beautiful woven minaret has fallen

caught in the agony of a pandemic,

Minarets, inviting the aged,

and the youth, the young and children

to its emblem of piety,

Recleansing burdened hearts.

Minds congested in worldly matters,

Has indeed laid silent, muted

And REPELLENT.

Oh! What a world? A period! A time!

When the human Naeemas

Folded their sleeves,

happier,

than a rocking Monkey.

A sombering moment

for the Mukaraboons,

Oo hail the detractors’ kitabs!!!

A reflective period for the Munafiquuns.

How do we tap the shine of the Saabiquuns

Drumming an encapsulated sheaths

Of nothingness?

And so does the sleeping minarets

Wielding their star-crescent,

bulldozing through covid19 era,

without casualties

The four minarets?

None could speak those panting words

Connecting night’s knights

of prayer warriors

In their wavy armor,

shinning the bright light of the moon,

In their bent posture.

Skidded wharves,

Whip along ascending skies,

Pulling up numbers from all corners

Under its merciful umbrella,

‘Harry to success.’

For it has lost its power to the clawing fangs

Of a pandemic, called Covid19,

Tearing its beauty into tills of agrarian beds.

yet no life.