O Prophet,

shall I bemoan

our abuse of your gift?

We use it to practice

vain airs as though

due praise for our actions,

but we didn’t even

create the clay that

weighs them down.

O Prophet,

you took flight, triumphing

over the material,

yet each day we descend

into the conspiratorial:

the plot of a pious name

that over generations

might attain to fame

like Khidr and Luqman.

O Prophet,

bowing and prostration

tear open a rift

in dunya’s doubt

and depression—what blessings

you conveyed! 

O Prophet, please ask

that our hearts move

in prayer,

and that we drown

in khushoo’s sea

like Ali.