I sit cross-legged and quiet hunched under the dome’s weight and crenellated curves in riot in almost-touches of mystic state. Allah calligraphed in around and Muhammad alongside chanting the Muminun’s sound sensibility’s osmosis opened wide. Up rises a Berber figure clothed in jubbah and mystery he looms near and bigger and peers at my history. The mosque is his the Islam mine the cry is his the meaning mine. He little understood I little explain all mutter he should all mutter I feign. The language is thine the faith mine the Command is Thine the meaning mine. Shadows heap on me like darkened dandruffed leaves and I hardly see as blinding light grieves. Shadows lengthen away outside, the nooned-eye astare at the strange play of a soul abare. An Andalucian fountain gurgles courtyard joy of a snowy mountain of a forgotten ploy. Filigreed fronds sway mucilaginous dates fill stomachs on Heavenway of purple maghrib’s chill. Far from here is Paris far the nipples of Montmartre far the ‘n’ai rien compris’ of the etiolated heart. I sit cross-legged awhile in the ambience of Islam drained of all bile deceived in phthisic calm. The Berber bows a Fulani moans the trellis soughs the Fulani groans. Cross-legged I sit in the bubble of a votive tear with inarticulate wit feel my tenebrific fear. “Oh Islam sleep silent, sleep strong gather afresh, gather anew, then blaze again flames long inspiring light much over-due”. The writer is the Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies, School of International Service, American University, Washington, DC, and author of Journey into Europe: Islam, Immigration, and Identity