and then our exile

Three people sitting on a pile of boulders at the edge of a farmer's field in southern Syria. A green kufi, a green hijab, a red and white shamagh, drinking mint tea from a black thermos. A field of red earth to their right, recently plowed with no apparent crop*. Mountains in the background, a tall range carved out of sheer rock, thrown onto with snow, and so much sky--layers of clouds, a horizon spread all about, a lake far in the foreground. A deserted highway two stone-throws away, the wind playing across their faces, their metaphysical hair. Before the road itself--a green metal sign scrawled upon in white paint. Across the strip of asphalt--a building set into the side of a hill, a large room smelling heavily of incense, two tombs within: one, Ayyub bin Amus bin Tarikh bin Rum bin 'Ays bin Ishaq bin Ibrahim 'alahimissalam; Job of the Old Testament. Sitting on a pile of boulders at the edge of a farmer's field in southern Syria.

*Crops--over a year ago, carpool on the way to SUNIA:
Me: that's a pretty good corn crop.
Abu Sha'er (Muntaka): how can you tell?
Me: erm. Look at it.
He: You're crazy.

[Leil* Azzam's rendition of the story of Ayyub^as]: Truly distress has seized me, but You are the Most Merciful of those that are merciful. (Q. 21:83)

 
His tomb, 'alayhissalam, in the countryside south of Damascus.

Every day is the last day of the year. It is Dhu'lQa'dah. But tomorrow is the last day of the year. "History will not remember 2004 as a decisive year of a violent and bloody century, but as a year that bore the consequences of the preceding three years which may have set the tone for the rest of the century." --[latest Quantum Note]. Descent not the result of divine Writ but direct consequence of our own folly.

This last year "plumbed the shadows of my soul" as no other year of my life, but held brightness as well. And so it ends.

"Between the lips and the voice something goes dying." --Neruda.