The Great Divide

By far there is no distance greater
than twixt the hand of man and God,
nor come to pass each askance later
moments sans a faithful nod.
By far there is no deed as honest
as the act of leaping blind,
nor ceases much such self admonish
from when an absence must will I find.
I hope the sky does fade in hue,
each noon and night I pray to you,
when to dark and when to light,
I dream awakened of that sight.
By far there is no moment better,
nor is by far a place as Holy
as the soul that bears your letter,
or a soul when burdened sorely.
By far there is no dust or dirt,
by far no clay is just as worthy,
as the one outworn from birth
or one thus worn in your reverie.
Kaaba, Aqsa, Hagia, Makkah,
pray I nay in their prostration,
Lord, Saviour, Highness, Allah,
thou art worth this exaltation.
No more shalt I serve in thy honor
words I fear may displease thee,
for as a mortal but am a fawner
I fall from grace but thou agree.

To My God From Me (A Complaint Most Humble)

Wouldst fear or fathom unimpedes’t mine thus putting forth
a question I doth know’est not be worthless or of worth,
Verily yea I wouldst then pose it unto my reigning God
and if the glory Hallelujah recieves’t with a nod.
Upon the hallowed floor of heaven placeth shall my brow
supine shall and humble be my back’st then as now.
With the sound of ashes left in embers dying in most vain
shall these words in halls of heaven echo sans redounding gain.
“Why dost thou let all my walls,
fall and crumble every day,
when knowest thou in all thy wisdom,
how hard I do strive to raise.
Why not do the children of heaven
grieve each moment as my people,
and how may comest their rejoice
every time there are no wounds.
How is it in just report when
all I needst is a hand
that when my words may come to thee
shall only thou hear then a rebel.
Lord my savior, Lord my shephard,
why should I pray to thee succor,
when bleeding hands with tourniquets
have painted dark the purest wounds.
Why must those who holdest faith
hurt the most to keepest thus,
but those who mourn no further loss,
they mightest grieve upon its gain.
Lord I hath no more to ask
of thee nor of thy wisdom but,
If irked thou art that much by doubt,
then how can silence be thy word.”

O God! (This Woman)

In a thousand shades of graceful glance,
in a thousand veils of restless grace,
O God I have witnessed this woman once,
but feel I have known before this face.
The nape that has no dawn nor sets
with one but two soft suns at rest,
and that into not all which lets,
O God this beauty rules that breast.
Her touch that feels like velvet lace,
the scent she has is warm perfume,
and as I taste her parted embrace
a shade of ecstasy her visage assumes.
Gladly I would caress her blushing
and reddened bends on which she lends,
her knees on sheets play always pushing
those ankles on which she ever attends.
O God, her gaze has left me yearning,
O God, that kiss has made me think
how can this fire live on burning
when she of hell nor heaven drinks.
She is a woman of touch and sense,
more than that? may the watchful wonder.
How her back can curve so tense,
and that between I taste while under.
From her goblet of the sourest
and all that, that must be veiled,
O God may I then drink most sweetest,
wine for which I pray lips sealed.
My God I must ask one last thing,
that fore upon our dance of souls
might fall the curtains of this fringe
may rest our bodies twixt our folds.