and then our exile

Wasted in my religion and beliefs
Are the tears of the weeper and the songs of the singers

And close is the call of the announcer of death, if measured
To the call of the joybringer in his cries

Does the dove cry
Or sing upon the trembling branch of her tree?
--of Abu’l Ala’a al-Ma’rie: on Eulogies, translated from the Arabic by Z. on Sept10/04

Pigeons coo outside my window as I write this. Their huu-huu is tasbeeh: this is how we are put to shame. Can we contrast, compare those who have choice to beings which do not? I think not, but even yet they are reminders.

Every day seems to be preparation, mental façade which circumvents the devil’s tasweef but achieves the same end. I have no Arabic classes till Sunday, and so must use this time to become.

the sky is falling, the sky is falling! --chicken little.
The appeal to Chicken Little is that my (physical) ceiling is shedding, there is occasional rain of specks of plaster and green fungus. Every night it rains cold water, it is the Syrian winter. These are the days of oranges, of small sweet oranges. Granola is of the blessings of God.