You Heard from a side window, looked out, saw the alleyway.
You Saw from the top story, enjoyed the view, left anyway.
You witnessed a simple blade of grass, you wept and sat awhile.
Who are you, curious child?
The wanton mind of a generation, the admired flower, the tiny seedling drop of morning dew, you spoke, and the world went quiet, silent, the sweet surrender of peace surrounds and fills and makes anew.
A child in spirit, in age, ageless, in mind, the same as it ever was, in body, creeping towards old age. Insha’Allah.
Where I was born they say “If the Lord is willing and the creek don’t rise.”
Perhaps sweeter and more meaningful is the mist of the other.
Now here, now gone.