“You shouldn’t talk about your sins, honey, it’s a curse. A heavy jummah day in the arms of the city drenched with chants and dust. A lil early, the bird wakes, with dried soul, to say, the poetry of praise. I dip myself in the wazu water, that quench thirst of the weigh with which i wander. And when the takbir fills my void ears. And i recall the time when i last heard prayer call with care.Folded arms entangled in chadar’s threads. Knowing that I’ll sin and then I’ll bow down to repent. I look up the sky then at my raised palms, in which i pour about those i forgot to mark.Don’t you forget too, to pray for those who asked. My prayer mat can’t hold more of what my heart demands. You shouldn’t talk about your sins, honey, Often, I’m too, a beholder, in a sinful city.