Daily Times

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