I refused to lay in my pit of wallowing,
because of Your promise.
I’ve used brokenness and defeat,
to fuel everything beautiful I can learn,
and always relied on my hands,
to guide me to the truth.
The truth that all beauty,
is an indication of one’s inclinations,
and ability to recognise it,
and to remain downtrodden,
is a reflection of one’s low opinion,
of You and Your promise.
This is how I carry myself,
defeat after defeat,
sin after sin,
finding trinkets of beauty,
even in my most despicable state.
I’m never ashamed,
because I know,
there’s far more beauty yet.
The heart can dry up,
even the most moist tongue,
uttering litanies of thanks,
uttering wanton prose of need,
is quietly begging rainfall,
to stir the seeds that lay dormant,
because we have a desire to be content,
and we know we can’t get it with stuff.
I’ve thus found it easier,
fought myself at both ends of my wit and found,
it’s not hard to be wet with contentment,
when you’re bathing in gratitude,
when you’re drowning in gratitude,
Alhamdullillah, wa shukr lillah
Necessity spawns creativity.
There’s a reason why you’re deprived of things.
You must believe in a wisdom beyond your comprehension.
All that banishment,
all that parchment
is preparing you
for a poetic end.
It’s easy to be infatuated with the idea that you are owed a perfection of practise.
Of being able to sail through your art, your craft, your day to day chores without resistance.
What you deem is the world conspiring against you, is sometimes the world conspiring for you. The value in everything is intrinsic, and for you to realise what you have will require continuous external pressure until that manifests.
-Wesam El dahabi
Nobility has its passage,
and it is not a dragging robe,
it’s dragging your ego in the dirt,
until it is one with the soil of humanity,
until you care not from where truth comes from,
as long as it comes.
Coming to terms,
may mean ignoring your mind,
to settle your heart,
slowing your heart,
to soothe your soul,
soothing your soul,
doesn’t mean mending it,
it just means,
accepting it for what it is.
The lustre of the outside world has lost its appeal,
blossoming doesn’t mean anything more than a closer step to dying,
just another vying,
ornamental display of superficiality,
a one way ticket to mortality,
and when the petals wither away,
down drops the seeds of vitality,
ironically, that life giving force,
the soul of this fleshen cycle,
is always an inside thing.
Why then are you afraid of folding,
of caving inside until you are outwardly nothing.