and then our exile

no obstacles endured, enduring, more
more than worn leaves drowning the ocean

years cycle on and as they do we construct in spurts the leaden crosses we bear upon our worn shoulders, we construct them with our own bare hands, and with this relish we embellish things which first were raw but with grim care become ornate, and on bleeding feet march on volition not our own down the via dolorosa...

hamiduddin farahi^ra and (i believe) fakhruddin ar-razi^ra, two great scholars of our tradition, wrote of the trade in ice we each take on - that our lives are blocks of ice we desperately try to sell for worth, as they melt away under the unimpressed sun...

the things i meant to say mean little, later on. even this, is on some subconscious level to form the image i will display. how much of who we think we are is who we really are? objectively? (whatever that means.)

years ago i said august was my favourite month, september close behind. augusts now are tinged with qualities which cloud any judgement, and september is almost over.

"subhanAllah - i was thinking, look how things are most beautiful right before they die." - zacharia