(Dedicated to Nusaybah bint Isah)
Sometimes, a strategy
Sometimes, a grave mistake
I've tried to learn the times
But have failed woefully in that regard
The tender will still turns out
Soothingly upon our spirits
Before the very debris of our sweat
And after due yanking of our eyes
Oh, my strained sight!
How often shall our minds fluctuate
To and fro the boundaries of deluge
Is it memory spillage?
Is it a calculation not well prescribed?
Or is it lack of capacity to communicate
With one's own spirit...
All wills surely converge
Gradually under varied, tapered areas
As in a needle from bottom to top
To One who owns The Affairs
So I seek the Face of my Lord
In patience, hope and fear
And a conviction that He'll choose for me the best
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