by Maliha Balala
Cute hijabs, matching tight pants,
perfectly manicured hands
drumming restlessly to the beat of the latest Nasheed pop.
Nice rides, sipping caf? lattes,
halaqas embraced in the depths of cozy rooms,
speaking of distant dreams and privileged existences.
Do we know the real struggle?
Club ISNA, throngs of fans milling air-conditioned convention halls,
pop star speakers glimmer in the spotlight,
beckoning distant hearts to spirituality and deeper lives;
chastising in that, oh so mesmerizing voice,
as the crowd yells a deep bass,
takbir followed by shrills of, Allahu Akbar!
Do we really comprehend the Greatness of our Creator?
Trekking the globe in search of meaning,
disenchanted existences within treasure-filled homes,
dreams of substance blocked by trivial minds;
apathy radiates in different colors;
squeezing potential out of our beings
like deep soaked sponges inflated by muddy waters;
Can meaning seep into a suffocated heart?
Following zigzag paths of nothingness;
in search of, Deen or the other half of my Deen,
whatever comes first.
So we step in style, mouthfuls of Subhana'Allah;
gleeful, Masha'Allah;
echoing from empty hearts frenzied by empty lives.
Scratching the surface of submission;
echoing lines from distant lives;
dreams of greatness shelved away;
as we pander our Proud to Be Muslim shirts;
cheap prices for cheaper wares.
Pardon my jaded writing;
perhaps I forgot
the subtle depths of this struggle,
as I begin to still
the meaningless symbols clanging in my heart.
Please remind me:
Do rays of the Divine
ever illuminate these darkened corners ?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment